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J 

TWO WOMEN 


BY 

J. George Frederick 


J 


NICHOLAS L. BROWN 

NEW YORK, :: 1924 



Copyright, 1923 
By 

NICHOLAS L. BROWN 
All Rights Reserved 




Printed in U. S. A. 

DEC 15 \m V 

©Cl A7 66371 % 




* 


TWO WOMEN 



/ 








































“ Odysseus was wandering in the chase at the 
foot of the mountains of Delphi and met two 
women—virgins—holding each other by the 
hand. The one had hair of violets, transparent 
e} 7 es and gi^ave lips. She said. I am Arete. The 
other had softly tinted eyelids, delicate hands 
and tender breasts. She said, I am Tryphe; 
and they said together, choose between ns. But 
the subtle Odysseus responded wisely: How 
could I choose? You are inseparable— I will 
follow you both. Visions melted together and he 
knew he had spoken with the great goddess 
Aphrodite. ’ ’ 

—Pierre Louts, in “Aphrodite.” 


4 


CHAPTER I. 


££TF I could flirt,’’ she said, reaching for 
I her severely plain little black patent leather 
A purse lying on the lunch table, and thus 
hinting in her delicate manner that she 
wished to terminate the tete a tete; “If, as you 
suggest, I could flirt, I should probably not 
have been entrusted with the editorship of the 
Arcadian.” 

She said it in the very best manner of Phyl¬ 
lis Batterman, meaning that she said it some¬ 
what proudly, seriously, with not a scintilla of 
humor in her lovely gray eyes. She was so 
young, so gravely conscious of the dignity and 
importance of this literary place that she had 
carved for herself, which made her the envied 
5 


6 


Two Women 


of her classmates and of the literary tyros at 
her college, that it was impossible to be irritated 
at what was so obviously a commonplace bit 
of literary snobbery and priggish self-con¬ 
sciousness. 

You see she was such a pretty prig! Such a 
naive, inexperienced little snob, that even a wo¬ 
man could forgive it in her—which is much to 
ask in a world of feminine ungenerosity! And 
as for the man—Herbert McAvoy, hardened 
newspaper man and cynic, yet lover of life— 
he took the same delight in her that one does 
in a child who throbs over fairies. 

McAvoy had just the moment before bluntly 
accused her of her inability to flirt—having made 
quite sure of his facts by patient experiment 
before speaking. 

“On the contrary,” countered McAvoy with 
promptness and oracular flourish, “your com¬ 
plete incapacity for the honored post you oc¬ 
cupy is demonstrated by this unseemly deficiency 
of yours. . . . Come now, could there be any¬ 
thing more absurd than an editress judging love 
stories who has never been in love, and who 
is incapable of flirting?” 

Phyllis rose, omitting no item of maidenly 
dignity in the process. (It is an important part • 
of the education of a Late-Victorian young lady 
to rise with eloquent gestures.) Presenting the 
most unruffled of exteriors, her baby-textured 


Two Women 


7 


face untroubled by any sign of irritation, she 
was nevertheless aware of being inwardly out¬ 
raged; as usual when with McAvoy. Answers 
that represented the best logic she was cap¬ 
able of came to mind, but were rejected for 
reasons of her own. Flinty little sparks of 
antagonism emitted from her, and she bent her 
bow for an arrow. 

4 ‘Even if I could flirt/’ she announced with 
lofty severity, “7 wouldn’t flirt with a married 
man.” 

Laugh as he would, McAvoy could not escape 
the smart of the arrow, for, true, he was mar¬ 
ried. He and his wife belonged to a sophisti¬ 
cated Greenwich Village group wherein enthusi¬ 
asms for, and flirtations with interesting peo¬ 
ple were as much a part of married life as in 
single life. Phyllis—compelled by the obvious 
pressure of examples of names she respected in 
the literary field, was “in” these circles and 
groups, but by no means “of” them. She was 
a romanticist fascinated by the realistic tenden¬ 
cies of the times, and in large part theoretically 
persuaded by them. Nevertheless by some ata¬ 
vistic instinct she drew her individual skirts vig¬ 
orously away from personal applications of even 
those theories which she accepted. Her envi¬ 
ronment and family atmosphere had been senti¬ 
mental, old fashioned, thoroughly Mid-Victorian 
—which is to say, more exactly, that she car- 


8 


Two Women 


ried in her mind all the old pictures of do* 
mestic happiness, of standards and of destiny, 
in spite of the considerable layers of “modern¬ 
ness” she had grafted loosely upon herself. 

Phyllis sniffed; but McAvoy was not to be 
disabled by so primitive a weapon as this. “I was 
reading Joubert last night,” McAvoy replied with 
a twinkle, “and he says Rousseau ‘took wisdom 
from men’s souls by talking to them of virtue.’ 
Heaven help you if you ever flirt with any but 
a nice house-broken married man like myself. 
I really believe some of those kids I’ve seen 
you travel with would have a stroke of apoplexy 
if you became even humanly kind to them. They 
think you’re Juno or somebody museum-y like 
that. They’re scared to death of you.” He 
chuckled with amused recollections of these men. 

Phyllis winced, for one of the irritations of 
her life was the group of young men who were 
attentive to her since college days—young men 
of her own age who each day of her lofty lit¬ 
erary ascendence seemed to grow more youth¬ 
ful, immature and impossible as companions. 
They developed such ludicrous spasms of love- 
fever for her; proposed to her with such ri¬ 
diculous incoherence, and adopted such blind 
and futile ways of reaching her heart that they 
made her impatient of the whole notion of love 
and marriage. 

“I’m not interested in men,” Phyllis made 


Two Women 


9 


reply, quite curtly. “Pm more interested in 
ideas than in the trousered sex.” Again that 
note of literary snobbery which set so absurdly 
prettily on her! She powdered her nose daint¬ 
ily and quite openly before him, for she had no 
sex-consciousness her personal vanity came 
from an aesthetic impulse altogether. 

“Quite obviously,” said McAvoy, viewing the 
performance with mixed feelings; “you seem 
to have been born minus all standard equip¬ 
ment in the way of a female bag of tricks.” 

They walked down Broadway toward her of¬ 
fice. 

“Do you think that reconstruction bill is go¬ 
ing to pass?” she asked with lively interest, 
quite ignoring their previous subject. “I’ve 
asked Jane Bodway to interview five senators 
on the subject and I believe I can get a fine 
special story with a punch out of the subject. 
Don’t you think so?” 

“Yes,” replied McAvoy, “but for goodness 
sake dress the stuff up when you get it; that 
last issue of yours looked like the Edinburgh 
Review. Shake the subject up a little—get some 
lively heads and subheads and scheme out some 
illustration. Make Jane write it the way she 
used to do her newspaper interviews. People 
want to be sold on an article before they’ll even 
read beyond the headlines.” 


10 


Two Women 


Phyllis looked somewhat superior and disdain¬ 
ful. 

“Oh, I know what’s in your mind, little Miss 
Bluestocking,” snapped McAvoy. “You’re all 
fussed up over the fact that you’re on a maga¬ 
zine now and not on a mere newspaper. You’re 
literary now, you think, with a real capital L. 
A mere Sunday newspaper editor is but one of 
the unlettered ants that crawl along the Amer¬ 
ican Grub Street! You think you can look wise 
in your horn spectacles, leisurely making up the 
simple pages of your dull sheet. But wait un¬ 
til your circulation manager flaunts the lack of 
subscription renewals in your face. You’re rid¬ 
ing Pegasus for a fall, Miss Bluestocking; I 
warn you!” 

But Phyllis merely went on discussing the 
political scene and her plans for her magazine, 
which were the hub and center of her universe. 
McAvoy made conscientious endeavors to keep 
pace with her, but it must be admitted that 
he was more interested in herself than in her 
ideas! Those full, frank eyes, set so wide apart, 
windowed a cool mind that contradicted utterly 
her soft feminine person; and those full, bowed 
lips offered ideas traditionally foreign to such 
a presence. 

“Tell Hannah I’ll run over for pot-luck din¬ 
ner some day this week,” she said lightly, as 


Two Women 


11 


she left him and whisked up her elevator; 
“thanks for the lunch!” 

When McAvoy that night entered the studio 
apartment he and his wife maintained, he found 
his wife stroking the hair and comforting Paul¬ 
ine Long, an incredibly thin but equally incred¬ 
ibly vivacious girl who was a reader of fiction 
for magazines. 

Pauline, it was plain, had been weeping as 
only she could weep when once something broke 
through her deep reserves; which meant that 
she wept, one might say, from the soles of her 
feet to the crown of her head and back again, 
with seismographic undulations. It was not an 
alarming event, after one got over the fear that 
she would fall into bits if she didn’t stop, be¬ 
cause it was not unknown. In fact an observ¬ 
ant person might have noted that Pauline 
seemingly had to weep just about once every 
six moons’ journeys, perhaps to counterbalance 
her usually perfect poise and her sere and 
serene philosophy. Hannah was usually the 
buoy Pauline anchored herself to in such 
rare storms, for Hannah understood her, ever 
since she had helped her to face an intrigue to 
oust her from her job at a newspaper syndicate 
office which handled Hannah’s daily newspaper 
articles on home decoration. 

‘ ‘Bert,” said Hannah matter-of-factly, and 
not without relief, 6 ‘ You ’ll now take charge of 




12 


Two Women 


our psychopathic patient and give me a chance 
to get dinner. Pauline’s really all in. Be a 
strong male comforter to her.” 

As Hannah moved away, Pauline curled up 
on the divan, into an amazing little ball, like a 
kitten, lying almost on the crown of her head 
with her feet curled under her. McAvoy picked 
her up, curl intact, and deposited her on his lap. 
She simply burrowed her face into a hiding 
place and lay like a spent bird. 

* 4 Suppose we have some man-talk now,” he 
said; i ‘some good, brutal, direct, man talk. 
Come on—did some cat in the office say she 
didn’t like your hat?” 

“Silly!” weakly whispered Pauline, uncon¬ 
trollable tremors still traversing her bosom. 

“Well, then,” demanded McAvoy, “did some 
snifsome snob of an editor-in-chief say you were 
falling down on your job?” 

“No!”—came sharply. 

“What else could matter, then?” McAvoy joc¬ 
ularly demanded. “Hat uncriticizable; literary 
career unhindered ... It must be love!” 

No answer. 

“It is love.” 

For answer, a wild, new gust of w T eeping. 
After she had cried herself into physical ex¬ 
haustion, she replied to him with strange calm: 
“Mark is in love with Phyllis.” 

McAvoy stared, then laughed. “Cheer up!” 


Two Women 


13 


he commanded. “Cheer up and grin! Vengeance 
is yours—villainous, vendetta-like vengeance, lit¬ 
tle girl! ? ? 

Pauline looked up hopefully. “What do you 
meant” 

“My quaint little amateur novelist/’ mocked 
McAvoy, “turn your analytical powers upon 
your rival. I lunched with her today and I 
know whereof I speak. You might as well be 
jealous of a statue in the Louvre. . . . Poor 
Mark! Oh, I say, what high comedy!” And 
again McAvoy laughed. 

Pauline was aroused. She sat up straight and 
large-eyed. “But whyV’ she insisted. 

“Because,” answered McAvoy, “she just told 
me today—and means it and acts it—that she 
likes ideas far better than men. She’s bored 
to death with love stuff. She loves herself only, 
in the role of Miss Bluestocking. All men to her 
look quite as alike as two peas.” 

“I don’t believe it,” rejoined Pauline, but 
with hope in her eyes. 

“Prove it by me,” said McAvoy cheerfully. 
“I’m a bit in love with her myself, and she 
stands more from me than from most men she 
knows. But she doesn’t feel any need of any 
man—except as a social escort. If I drowned 
tomorrow she’d say ‘too bad’ and be deep in 
the Neiv Republic shortly after. Same with 
Mark or any man she’s ever met.” 


14 


Two Women 


“Oh, but I’ve heard her say she was ' mad ’ 
about—well, about Roy Burt, editor of Today, 
for instance!” 

“True, true,” deprecated McAvoy, “she does 
get crushes—but equally over women as over 
men. And her ‘madness’ is so intense that it 
sometimes induces her to see the object of it 
the third time! But usually she forgets about 
them before she learns their middle initial or 
remembers their address. Some she never even 
sees twice!” 

“But isn’t she human?” queried Pauline, 
dubiously. 

“Of course, but under-ripe; green-plum-like.” 

“Why do you fall for her, too,” insisted Pau¬ 
line with resentment. “She hasn’t even a sense 
of humor. Why did you?” 

“Me?” replied McAvoy, with momentary em¬ 
barrassment, followed by a laugh, “because 
every rapier likes a good foil, I suspect. She’s 
a Pandora’s box of possibilities that appeals to 
a lively imagination, but she resists opening. 
I know a lot about Hannah—she’s developed 
and recorded. But Phyllis may be anything or 
nothing, according to how your idealizer hap¬ 
pens to be working that day when she’s around. 

. . . Has Mark fallen for her very hard?” 

A tragic nod. 

“How do you know?” 

“By his excitement when she’s around. And 


Two Women 


15 


he’s begun to doll himself up; you know how 
careless he’s always been about himself, until 
now . Oh, why couldn’t he do it for me?” Pau¬ 
line ended with a tremulous wail. 

McAvoy stroked her hair soothingly. “Take 
a handful of advice from a battle-scarred vet¬ 
eran,” he said, “and use every device, fair or 
foul, to oust Mark from your little heart. No¬ 
body ever got a lover back by weeping over his 
strayings. You’re at the opposite end of the 
spectrum from Phyllis. She’s the too-cold end, 
and you’re the too-warm end. Neither of you 
is what Mark really wants—if he knew what he 
wanted!” 

“But you’re desiring her, too. If you’re so 
wise, smartie, why don’t you laugh away your 
own ‘crush’ on Phyllis! I hate her! Mark was 
just beginning to ‘see’ me; you know what I 
mean—just beginning to get at the real me.” 

“Much aided and abetted by you,” sardoni¬ 
cally retorted McAvoy. “Pauline, you didn’t 
give him enough chance to strain himself seek¬ 
ing you of his own accord. Mark is a—well, 
call him a Zoroastrian fire worshipper when it 
comes to women: he adores the destructive, the 
cruel. He’d be crazy to marry you if you 
spurned and trampled him.” 

“How subtle,” mocked Pauline. “Please an¬ 
swer me—why can’t you cure yourself, Mr. Phy¬ 
sician?” 


16 


Two Women 


“Damned if I know,” confessed McAvoy with 
a broad and sheepish smile. “I take all my ad¬ 
vice back. It’s good, all right, but you’d better 
find some quite perfect oracle to tell it to you. 

. . . Let’s see if Hannah needs a hand!” 


CHAPTER II. 


A young man with bushy hair and a square 
jaw, with a look of determination somehow gone 
wrong, stood outside a telephone booth in a busy 
corner cigarstore until a man in a hurry growl¬ 
ed at him: “Well, you are through?” and brush¬ 
ed him aside to enter the booth. Even then 
he stood there, hands thrust straight and tightly 
downward in his overcoat pockets, a prey to 
bafflement. 

Mark Stockman had just tried for the fourth 
time in ten days to make an engagement with 
Phyllis Batterman, and each time been gently 
refused, with much attendant show of cause. 
Mark couldn’t ever remember what the details 
had been, but they were mainly the same sort 
of things—women’s committees or something 
or other; work to do, relatives or what not. 
He wasn’t permitted even to see her home from 
any of them. “I’ve told you how I feel about 
having men call for me at such meetings,” she 
had explained. And after having mentioned 
something to interfere with every suggestion he 
made, she had lightly suggested that he call her 
17 


18 


Two Women 


up some day next week and walk down Fifth 
Avenue with her during lunch time! She con¬ 
sidered a lunch with him likely to detain her 
too long—she was so busy at the office and 
would have a bite somewhere and meet him at 
the drug store! And Mark had done this very 
thing before—he knew exactly what chance 
there was for coherent conversation in a walk 
during the noon-hour on the Avenue, while be¬ 
ing jostled by collarless tailors and cutters 
walking five abreast in almost solid masses! 
Mark was quick-tempered, and one lobe of his 
brain wished to damn her indifferent soul and 
quit her, while the other merely stirred his 
desire further. 

Of all the barriers to fame and fortune which 
Mark had come upon in his prideful career of 
self-help, the problem of Phyllis Batterman was 
the most dismaying. All others he had hurdled 
athletically after due application of his native 
square-jawness; but square-jawness was appar¬ 
ently quite powerless before the problem of 
Phyllis. Mark was a marvel of concentrated 
energy, which in ten years had carried him from 
a country town onto the staff of a metropolitan 
newspaper, and still 4 ‘going strong.” He was 
a picked man and was already doing magazine 
“specials,” the kind that required newspaper 
enterprise to land. Enterprise was the thing 
Mark vibrated with in every manner and tone; 


Two Women 


19 


push and hustle were written all over him—with 
the usual earmarks of omission of minor details 
that women are especially good at noting, such 
as manners, ease and the social fruits of leisure 
and education (secured, in most cases, at the 
expense of father.) Mark had paid for his own 
education by furnace tending, “chauffing” and 
other jobs, and had been so grimly set upon it all 
that his face couldn’t readily relax into humor 
or easy, socialized expression. He, too, couldn’t 
flirt! Therefore his passion for Phyllis took 
on the character of an intensely serious pur¬ 
suit. 

Of course he accepted her invitation to walk 
down the Avenue next week. He called for her 
at her office and made himself unnecessarily 
conspicuous by his self-consciousness. There was 
a sharp-tongued girl at the telephone exchange 
where visitors were directed for information; 
and what is more, she had a great plenty of 
hair of the dangerous hue upon her head. 
After waiting for a few moments until she fin¬ 
ished making some connections, she turned upon 
him with great suddeness and snapped: “ Who - 
do-you-wantf” 

Engrossed in a little reverie, Mark was con¬ 
fused. He merely stared at the girl. “I want” 
—he began, halted, and said, 4 Hell her.” 

“Tell whom?” snapped the girl with her cold, 
level eyes upon him; meanwhile shifting tele- 


20 


Two Women 


phone plugs with an adept precision which 
merely helped to hypnotize him. 

“Philomena,” finally said Mark, uncertainly, 
as if in a trance. 

‘Philo-what?” rasped the telephone girl, the 
whites of her eyes showing over her pupils, as 
she plainly regarded the man with suspicion as 
to his sanity. 

Mark woke up. “I mean Miss Batterman,” 
he said, flushing. 

He had spoken aloud a Greek name for her 
which he had used to her only once, hut which 
he had constantly repeated to himself in his 
thoughts of her. 

“Oh,” said the telephone operator—a world 
of enlightment concerning the situation in her 
tone. There was a supercilious mockery in her 
smile all the time that he waited; and it 
would have been a long wait even for a patient 
man, before Phyllis appeared. She trod as se¬ 
renely down the aisle, paying no attention to 
hustling office girls, billclerks and others, as if 
she were walking the broad hallway of a man¬ 
sion. Mark eagerly drank in every line and 
curve of her. She wasn’t very tall, but very 
compact; she had a very milk-white skin, eyes 
of unusual size—lakes of cobalt gray-blue of most 
disconcerting frankness, and a plentitude of 
hair of the hue of rich Havana tobacco-leaf. 
She had the snub nose, the mild chubbiness of 


Two Women 


21 


one of the Madonnas of Montaga. To Mark, 
as she walked toward him, she was an extra¬ 
ordinary jewel cut in totally unique pattern. He 
was filled to the brim with the sense of her, 
with desire to carry her off for his own. Every 
lobe of his brain was alive with visions and 
images of her and of a future for them to¬ 
gether. 

But her eyes and her manner spoke obviously 
of a state of mind quite the reverse. His 
coming was but the smallest ripple upon the 
smooth surface of her existence. 

Down the hot, insufferably crowded avenue 
they went, pushed and squeezed and separated 
by sweltering, odorous rows of collarless, un¬ 
shaven hordes of many nationalities, workers 
out of the clothing manufacturing lofts which 
at that time still existed before the regeneration 
of Fifth Avenue had been begun by the removal 
of the clothing factories to other parts of the 
city. 

Phyllis seemed not in the least perturbed, 
whereas Mark was fuming underneath with re¬ 
vulsion at the contrast between his feelings and 
the all too immediate surroundings; between 
the delicate perfumery of her nearness at one 
moment, and the malodorous proximity of an 
unkempt human the next moment. It was a 
cruel garden for the flowering of an effulgent 
love. 


22 


Two Women 


Nor was the cruelty purely that of the tor¬ 
tured senses. Phyllis was paying practically 
no attention to him, walking independently in 
such a manner that he was frequently separated 
from her, and cut off suddenly and ungracefully, 
even ridiculously, in the middle of a sentence. 
Furthermore he could develop no personal note 
in such conversation as they had. 

“Won’t you go with me Saturday for a walk 
somewhere?” he asked desperately 

“Can’t—must be in town for tea at Mrs. 
Brown’s,” was Phyllis’ reply. 

“But—Phyllis, do you know you never seem 
to want to take a little time off?” 

“Haven’t time,” cheerfully vouchsafed Phyl¬ 
lis. 

“How’s your article on the steel strike com¬ 
ing along?” 

But just in the middle of her sentence a group 
of three shirt-sleeved tailors, arm in arm, forced 
a separation. 

“How’s what?” Mark panted, coming along¬ 
side again. 

“The article on the steel strike.” 

“Oh, forget it,” exclaimed Mark impatiently, 
“I don’t want to talk of my dreary doings. Let’s 
talk about something else. Where are you go¬ 
ing to eat?” 

“Eat?” exclaimed Phyllis; “I haven’t time 
to eat. I merely want some malted milk and 


Two Women 


23 


pastry in a sweet shop. Let’s turn into this 
street.” 

In a moment they were passing by the Prince 
George—its cool spacious dining room and snow- 
white napery temptingly looking out upon the hot 
and crowded street. 

With an impulse born of a man who has hab¬ 
itually compelled things to go his way and hates 
to brook opposition, he seized her elbow and 
almost forcibly steered her into the hotel; his 
jaw showing his sudden passionate determina¬ 
tion. Phyllis made an effort at resistance, 
looked up at his face, smiled in amusement and 
permitted herself to be. drawn inside. 

They were hardly seated before Mark leaned 
forward with his eyes agleam with that ag¬ 
gressiveness which repelled Phyllis and yet at 
the same time was vaguely attractive. His lips 
showed self-consciousness and his hand toyed 
awkwardly—and annoyingly to Phyllis—with the 
salt shaker. 

“I might as well tell you now,” he began, 
speaking rapidly and tensely, “I love you and 
I’ve got to have your answer.” 

“All right— no .” replied Phyllis, mocking his 
militant, brisk tone and smiling easily. “Now, 
Sir Launcelot, order me a plate of soup. They’re 
slow in serving and I haven’t much time, as 
you know.” 

From a color point of view Mark’s face was 


24 


Two Women 


a study. The red and white alternated; in 
obedience to the pain and the pride, the anger 
and the sense of frustration which coursed 
through him. 

“Since we’re to deal in words of one syl¬ 
lable,” Mark finally said, a little coldly, ‘‘why?” 

“You,” replied Phyllis, continuing to mock 
his short, sharp tone. 

Mark became silent, until Phyllis, feeling his 
mood of depression, dropped her attitude of 
mockery and gave evidence of the most disas¬ 
trous of all love emotions—compassion. 

“I do appreciate your feeling, Mark,” she 
said with a very earnest face. “But you cannot 
make a heart love, can you? I really don’t think 
much about men—I’m awfully interested in my 
work.” 

She looked across the table with such placid, 
untroubled, unimpassioned contentment with life 
that Mark instinctively read the utter remote¬ 
ness of his opportunity. A fury of unreasoning 
opposition smote him. His face flushed and 
that aggressive gleam she liked to watch began 
to play in his eyes. 

“What’s the matter with me?” he blurted 
forth. “If I were the right man you couldn’t 
take me as coldly as that. I don’t believe you 
know what you’re talking about; you’re a child. 
Stop your nonsense and be an adult.” 

Phyllis smiled. She had a perfectly fixed 


Two Women 


25 


idea that she was infinitely more finished and 
wise than he was—and she seemed to reflect it 
in her manner. She noted his various evidences 
of crudity of breeding; his table manners, his 
clothes and his self-consciousness. They built 
a barrier between them which no feeling for him 
she could imagine could bridge. He belonged to 
another race, it almost seemed. The idea of 
marriage seemed not only fantastic but repug¬ 
nant. “It would be like Blake’s ‘The Marriage 
of Heaven and Hell,’ ” she commented to her¬ 
self . . . But there was something that held her 
interest, to a degree; she did not know what. 

As she thought of these things, as she looked 
at him, speeding his rice to his mouth too rap¬ 
idly for grace; his nails showing roughly cut 
edges, and his tie in too violent competition with 
his florid face—Mark stopped to continue a 
speech. 

“You don’t know it,” he said bellicosely, “but 
you need me and you’ll live to admit it. I know 
you—I’ve been devouring you with all my brain 
and senses all the time I’ve known you, and I 
know what I’m talking about. I know what 
would be good for you; I'd show you how to get 
somewhere! ’ ’ 

Phyllis bristled; her smile froze. 

“Yes, get somewhere,” continued Mark, in 
hard, ringing tones; “you’re snugly contenting 
yourself with a two-by-four berth that seems 


26 


Two Women 


to satisfy your vanity. I, or any living man, 
wouldn’t stand it but for a little while; you 
seem to have no idea beyond it. You’ve got to 
go beyond that—you could do it.” 

Phyllis, feeling her most beloved interest, her 
work, belittled, was irritated, then disdainful. 

“I think I must be getting back,” she said, 
somewhat tartly. 

“Very well,” replied Mark, a little cynicism 
appearing on his lips. “Let’s go by all means.” 

And so Mark retreated from Phyllis’ life for 
some weeks. He nursed his wounds in bitter 
silence. His alert, knife-like intelligence saw 
Phyllis in a clear perspective, but the very 
clarity of his sight was his most poignant des¬ 
pair. He put it to himself one evening in his 
own rooms, walking up and down, two fists in 
his pockets. “I or any man am only an ani¬ 
mated Jack-on-a-stick to her. She doesn’t know 
what a man is for. That’s right—and she 
doesn’t know what she’s for. I never saw a 
woman quite so astral . . . . Love”—he stopped 
and gazed at his rusty, unused coal grate fire¬ 
place (mute sign of his chilly, loveless, art¬ 
ificial hearthstone)! “Love! She can parse in¬ 
finitely better than she can love. . . . She’s as 
green emotionally as a raw persimmon. . .Wait, 
that’s all I can do. . . wait. . . . for God knows 
how many years,” and Mark looked down, re¬ 
bellious, bitter and baffled; kicking the iron grate 


Two Women 


27 


as though needing some object on which to vent 
his feeling. Ironically, as if in self-mockery, 
there ran through his mind a phrase from the 
Dhammapada, the anthology of early Buddhism: 
“he who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence.’’ 
But act how? Despair perched upon his stub¬ 
born brows. 


CHAPTER THREE 


It is one of the unsolved mysteries of human 
nature why those who 44 write ’’ are accorded a 
glamour rather unequalled by anything else. It 
is easy to understand why the urchin glorifies a 
baseball star; it is even easy to guess what holds 
male attention upon the stage—femininity. Psy¬ 
chologists know why audiences cheer wildly the 
ideas orated by a speaker which in cold print 
seem commonplace. 

But the writer is an object of almost universal 
reverence, for no very clear reason. An Eighth 
Avenue landlady, to whom a thick-jo wled, 
coarse-grained young man announces his busi¬ 
ness to be that of “writing” (building trade 
notes for a lumber trade paper) does not make 
any distinctions. He is a writer; it is enough. 
He becomes in her eyes a marked personality; 
a distinction conferred upon her unwashed es¬ 
tablishment. She will tell other prospective 
roomers, with a show of pride, that she has a 
writer in her house, and expects them to feel 
that they are privileged to reside under the 
28 


Two Women 


29 


same roof. She may even ask an extra dollar 
or two per week for the unction. There may 
be in the house a far more learned personage, 
a settlement clergyman or a teacher, but the 
lumber trade paper writer is the bright star 
of the firmament; and if the incessant clatter 
of his typewriter is hard to bear, it is a burden 
lightened by the esoteric magic of the literary. 

The cult of the worship of the literary has 
innumerable devotees in every avenue and in 
every walk of life; it is kneeled to even in the 
writing profession itself. Different types of 
writers—and there are innumerable classes and 
kinds of writers—deprecate their own daily la¬ 
bors and look worshipfully at another kind of 
writing. The newspaper man attaches allure¬ 
ment to magazine writing in general; and the pop¬ 
ular magazine writer attaches glory to the 
writer for the literary magazines; the writer 
of articles to the writer of stories; and the 
writer of short stories to the writer of novels; 
the writer of realistic fiction to the writer of 
romantic or mystic fiction. 

Finally, all writers as well as the public look 
with misted eyes upon the editorial chair, as 
a neophyte makes obeisance to a throne or an 
altar. An editor, be it noted, then, enjoys a 
doubled-lensed glamour, and is the object of a 
two-directioned adoration—from writer and from 
public. 


30 


Two Women 


In this happy life Phyllis basked herself in 
her job. Every day was a court day for her 
entourage. There were the illustrators—rang¬ 
ing all the way from bright-eyed, amateurish 
but hopeful misses with art ambitions and a 
need for the daily bread, to the disillusioned 
hacks with competent, reliable fingers who had 
given up hope of hanging in salons. They were 
all instantly responsive to friendliness, and clev¬ 
er in their invitations, gifts, and maneuverings 
to “cultivate” the editor. 

There were the writers, who ranged the en¬ 
tire gamut of personality from short, fat Mr. 
Elbridge Dalton Parkman who could write on 
anything y positively anything, to the gaunt and 
pathetic Miss Francisca Martyn who began by 
offering 5000 word Miltonesque poetry and 
ended up by being given—out of sheer pity— 
the preparation of odd little paragraphs to fill 
out columns. 

Then there was the musical and theatrical 
fraternity and their press agents who had many 
tickets to offer and many invitations to private 
chamber music, studio parties and opening-night 
occasions. 

Beyond these there were the public men and 
women—club-women, reformers, political and 
educational personages—in general the publi¬ 
city-seeking world; all subtle in their flatteries 
and persistent in their attentions. Every day 


Two Women 


31 


the telephone bell buzzed incessantly; everyday 
there were callers, every day there were many 
notes on many colors of stationery, but all freely 
using terms of special friendliness and endear¬ 
ing salutations. Mrs. F. Hollister Brown, a 
rich woman who took most seriously the subject 
of playgrounds, invited her to a reception, in a 
most cordial tone. Arturo Fonelli, a composer, 
was having a birthday party, and Phyllis must 
come because only she could write the little verse 
which was to be at everybody’s plate. 

No day was alike; all days were too short; 
all evenings seemed filled with possibilites to 
meet new people and do new things. Could 
there be any wonder that Phyllis came to be¬ 
lieve, in her young and naive way, that she was 
singled out to be a special personage; that she 
was a woman of some importance; in brief that 
she had little to ask from the fates? She be¬ 
lieved herself to be what the attentions show¬ 
ered upon her imputed her to be—a literary 
woman with position and prominence. 

The Arcadian was a weekly which was a play¬ 
thing for Col. Maynard, gentleman of the old 
school; his political plaything; and it was in con¬ 
sequence a rather ill-assorted mass of material 
which grew by accident each week rather than 
by design. The owner retained the editorship 
himself, hired an editorial writer to reflect his 
views, and his staff of two or three, including 


32 


Two Women 


Phyllis, each worked oat a certain namber of 
pages each week according to their ideas. Phyl¬ 
lis had a year before presented a letter from her 
college president to the editor, been hired to do 
a series of articles, and when one of the staff 
editors saddenly left, had gradaated into the job 
withoat mach being said,—nor mach being added 
to her salary! Bat she had a small private in¬ 
come, and she cared far more for the amenities 
of her job than for her salary check. There 
was no particalar plan or parpose to her editing 
—if someone at a reception today talked very 
earnestly aboat his favorite sabject, it was very 
likely that the Arcadian woald carry an essay 
on the sabject next week. Sometimes its pages 
reeked with propaganda that had made an ap¬ 
peal to her—other times it ran all toward light 
material. Sometimes there were no illnstrations 
—sometimes a hage photograph of someone ap¬ 
peared. It all depended apon the day and the 
mood and Phyllis’ roster of calls and engage¬ 
ments the week before. 

For many months this life fascinated Phyllis, 
and she gave herself ap to it completely. She 
steeped herself in it and her personality colored 
itself from the atmosphere in which she moved. 
Feeling the attitades of respect and attentive¬ 
ness she encoantered, and being natarally an 
aristocrat with more than a toach of snobbery, 
she gave herself sabtle, precioas airs; acqaired 


Two Women 


33 


a certain aloofness and presumption, and carried 
herself with an assurance which, it must he said, 
only added to the appeal she made. She took 
special pleasure in talking of weighty matters 
with the more important men she met. And such 
men were ever ready to talk to her, for she 
was a young woman particularly good to look at, 
who, with her clear unwavering blue eye and a 
serious demeanor, would talk of the world of 
affairs, with never a dulcet tone nor a purely 
feminine exclamation or saccharine phrase of 
comment. It was stimulating to Phyllis and a 
delightful diversion to the men, who were mostly 
middleaged or old. 

But when Phyllis talked to the young men 
in precisely the same way, it was a long time 
before she noticed that there was a difference. 
One evening she went to Hannah’s studio where 
there were always interesting people to be met. 
Mark was there and Pauline and McAvoy; Les¬ 
ter Meyer, a serious-minded reform writer; 
Paul D’Arcy, a leader in the modern school of 
art, and a half dozen others—including a college 
professor, widely known for his studies in cer¬ 
tain branches of political economy. 

The young men, adept at small talk and play¬ 
fulness, made many efforts to draw Phyllis into 
their teasing and their play, but though her¬ 
self scarcely conscious of it, it didn’t interest 
her. She found herself preferring to engage 


34 


Two Women 


Prof. Whitcomb in conversation about his new 
book. The young men, half in awe, listened 
and watched this young woman, so fresh and 
desirable in outward appearance, talking about 
matters of which they knew nothing and cared 
less; and by and by most of them went back to 
their kittenish play or their harranguing mono¬ 
logues. To be sure Phyllis didn’t really discuss 
Prof. Whitcomb’s subject—she merely asked 
questions and encouraged the cautious, measured 
speech of the Professor, who like others, felt the 
flattery of a pretty young woman’s interest. 

“Realism, realism,” the Professor was saying, 
musingly; “we’re always oscillating between re¬ 
alism and romanticism—since the Alexandrian 
period, when we fluttered from the Argonautica 
of Appollonius of Rhodes to the Mimes of Her- 
ondas.” 

“But what is the ideal, the true viewf” 
queried Phyllis. 

“It doesn’t exist,” smiled the Professor; 
“as Hazlitt said, ‘the ideal is to be found in the 
extremes;’ and as we can’t tolerate extremes 
we swing back.” 

Gregory Eaton alone stayed in the conversa¬ 
tion after over an hour of debate on realism. 
Gregory was as abstract and impersonal as 
apparently was Phyllis herself; he was slender 
and languid and his dark eyes looked perpetu¬ 
ally bored and disillusioned. He wrote on eco- 


Two Women 


35 


nomic reform for radical journals of opinion, 
for a living, but had literary aspirations. He 
was perfectly at home in the realm of pure 
ideas; indeed lost in them, usually, ignoring 
even the tempting beverages placed near him. 

After all the others had gone and Phyllis had 
stayed for a “late bite” at Hannah’s special 
invitation, Hannah—a penetrating, human and 
friendly soul—took Phyllis’ cheeks between her 
hands and asked, “Are you always more inter¬ 
ested in the old ones than the young ones?” 

“Why?” asked Phyllis bewildered—and char¬ 
acteristically making no response to Hannah’s 
sisterly affection. 

“Because, my dear girl,” replied Hannah, “I 
thought surely you’d notice Lester—he’s such 
a boy, with all his wonderful art knowledge; 
but you spent all the evening talking to Prof. 
Whitcomb and hardly noticed anyone else!” 

Phyllis, in her room that night thought Han¬ 
nah unreasonable and frivolous. Why shouldn’t 
she talk to Prof. Whitcomb instead of romping 
around with a boy? Prof. Whitcomb was an 
important thinker; he counted in the world of 
opinion; Hannah’s Lester boy was just a young¬ 
ster. 

A few days later Phyllis went to Mrs. F, Hol¬ 
lister Brown’s reception. There were many 
people of social prominence there; but in prin¬ 
ciple the same thing occurred. Half a dozen 


36 


Two Women 


quite insipid young men “talked small” to her 
in what seemed to her a most brainless manner, 
and seemed disappointed when she did not arch 
her eyebrows and coquette and return their 
small talk as did the other young “flappers” 
there. Even Mrs. Brown seemed to her strongly 
marked with an ill-fitting affectation of girlish¬ 
ness. Finally she discovered a serious-eyed man 
with a Vandyke beard whom she recognized as a 
prominent city official, and she was soon engag¬ 
ing him at length in conversation. She was inter¬ 
rupted by Mrs. Brown and a young man who said 
smilingly, “Mr. Ames, I insist upon being intro¬ 
duced to Mrs. Brown’s little friend before I go.” 

And then after five minutes of talk with the 
young man, Phyllis was painfully aware of the 
young man’s disappointment. He had plainly 
thought her to be what she looked—a “regular” 
young woman, pretending to be interested in 
things mental but really full of “girl stuff”— 
easy to play with. Instead she looked at him 
soberly as a judge, discoursed with him about 
playgrounds (the last thing he cared about) 
and could not be cajoled into even the begin¬ 
ning of “fun.” Curiously enough, she realized 
the situation and made an effort to be light, 
but the effect was wooden. He soon edged away 
with ill-hidden loss of interest. For the first time 
Phyllis felt pique at this and began to revolve 
in her mind the possible causes. She could not 


Two Women 


37 


shake off the riddle for days; it began slowly 
to obsess her. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Midnight hells tolled both near and far over 
still wideawake New York. 

Half an hour of time had passed since he had 
gone, but his voice was still dominating the 
room. Four or five ebony candlesticks bearing 
swaying points of filmy light swept the little 
apartment parlor with an eerie mixture of mid¬ 
night shadows which fostered the illusion that 
the man was still there who had rent the sac¬ 
rosanct veil of illusion for Phyllis Batterman. 

She was sitting before her old but beautifully 
toned ebony piano in much the same position 
as when he left. The simple blue frock she 
wore, the few but satisfying pieces of furniture 
in the room, and the absence of ornament or 
ostentation bespoke her intimate relation to 
fineness and simplicity; bespoke even her aus¬ 
terity and pride. The books and magazines so 
much in evidence on shelf and mantel and the 
table bespoke many more things than they might 
have seemed to at first glance; indeed they were 
strangely now become the ornate badges of her 
humiliation. 


38 


Two Women 


39 


Phyllis’ eyes stared intent upon a dim corner 
of the room, in a mood deeper and more spell¬ 
bound than any she had ever known. One might 
have guessed the square-set integrity of that 
character from the width between the eyes, the 
level intenseness of her gaze and the unafraid 
directness of it. Yet there was now foreshad¬ 
owed in those eyes a vague but real fearsome¬ 
ness. She might have been sitting for the para¬ 
doxical portrait of Indefeasible Dignity, van¬ 
quished but not yet surrendered; awakening to 
fear of life but not yet cowed by it. 

The words, the intonations, the manner, the 
authenticity of character, the degree of convic¬ 
tion, the general personality and the background 
of Gregory Eaton, the man who had just left, 
moved endlessly back and forth across Phyllis’ 
mental vision; while over and over again the 
resisting part of her poured acid tests upon the 
rude, powerful, shaking ideas he had presented, 
or made primitive efforts to undermine his 
standing, so that she could disdain his ideas. 
But he was just precisely the type of man she 
was bound to respect. 

“How did it all start?” she asked herself, 
casting about for escape from the prison of 
logic in which she found herself. A simple lit¬ 
tle question had, with the simplicity of a trigger, 
resulted in exploding most of her conceptions 
of herself and life. She had asked, half in 


40 


Two Women 


banter, but earnestly seeking an answer to her 
riddle, “Why do so many men seem almost to 
be afraid of me?” She had felt free to ask it 
it of him because he had not seemed to be afraid 
of her. In reply to her question Gregory Eaton 
had looked at her for a full minute before re¬ 
plying—a look which she was not likely to for¬ 
get; a look in which a sex debated whether or 
not to illuminate the other sex with inner know¬ 
ledge of itself; a look which guessed perhaps 
that it was a serious thing to be the means by 
which a woman became sex-conscious. 

“You have no bag of sex tricks,” he had then 
asseverated, with a solemnity which had wid¬ 
ened her eyes. “You are, in short, a neuter 
4 high-brow;’ ” he had continued, as he poised 
himself lazily against the mantel-piece. “You 
like ideas better than you like people, certainly 
more than you like any individual; but what 
is more subtle still, you are vaunting yourself 
cerebrally. ’ ’ 

“Vaunting myself cerebrally?” she had asked 
with confusion, dreading yet desiring that this 
thing be explained. “Yes,” he had gone on to 
say, “you are in fact applying all the age-old 
weakness of woman in your mental life. The 
unintelligent man who believes you are intel¬ 
lectual is afraid of you because he instinctively 
seeks for something else than intellect in woman. 
The really intellectual man, on the other hand, 


Two Women 


41 


sees through you; he knows that you wear ideas 
with the same motive that other women wear 
hats or dresses,—to ornament yourself—and 
change them or tire of them just as often. Your 
attention to mental matters is on a par with 
women’s attention to their dressmakers and 
their toilet. Ideas are your conception of dress 
and decoration, the spangles and gilt of a cos¬ 
tume. You read and discuss books and mental 
matters with display purposes in mind; and you 
sweep into a conversation with your ideas with 
the same aristocratic effort to outshine as does 
a woman who counts upon her clothes when 
she sweeps into a roomful of company. You 
are not truly interesting mentally for that rea¬ 
son, for you have too little of the impersonal 
respect for final truth and pure reason; too little 
of the sustained mental interest necessary to 
follow a subject through in the lonely labora¬ 
tory of your study and your mind. ,, 

Gregory had walked slowly to an ash tray and 
tapped his cigarette. 

“So, if you will forgive such uninvited plain- 
speaking,” he had continued, with a bright, even 
apologetic smile, as he strode about the room, 
while Phyllis breathed spasmodically, trying not 
to feel resentful; “that is the reason men are 
often afraid of you!” 

Phyllis picked very absently with one hand a 
Debussey motif on her piano, without reply. 


42 


Two Women 


His gentle voice did not invite anger, but she 
would not have been human had she not felt 
wounded. 

Leaning forward easily on the piano lid, he 
continued. “You are successful, as women 
always are in wearing anything for personal 
enhancement and creating an impression, wheth¬ 
er it be with clothes or with ideas. The net 
result is that you thoroughly convince them 
that you probably know a great deal more than 
they do. But you do not convince them that 
you are what they dream of as a woman. And, 
you see, it is what the Antigone calls one of 
the “unwritten laws of heaven,’* that man must 
dream about his woman. W. L. George, our 
English oracle on woman, says our most pre¬ 
cious possession is our idealized view of woman. 
Unfortunately your disguise of ideas is com¬ 
plete—they never see the woman in you at all! 
Therefore men can’t very well dream of you— 
they are baffled, repelled, frozen off. Their im¬ 
agination runs from the idea of you as sweet¬ 
heart, wife and mother. We want woman stuff 
when we mate, more than we want sheer mind- 
stuff; that’s the blunt truth.” 

He stopped and smiled self-deprecatingly; 
Phyllis was too moody to make reply and con¬ 
tinued to pick faint themes on the keyboard. 
“Even the brilliant and intelligent among men 
are not always balanced enough to have any 


Two Women 


43 


desire for brains in the woman they love. I 
have debated the thing with myself many times, 
and entirely sympathize with the intelligent men 
who marry a woman with lines, vivacity, joy¬ 
ousness and emotional power—and little brains. 
Wasn’t it Blake who said that to be beautiful 
and wise one needs only to be exuberant? Man 
wishes to warm the cold logic of his nature with 
woman’s warmth and playfulness. I admit it 
—man’s own ego doesn’t have nearly so simple 
and comfortable a time with brainy women. He 
doesn’t get from brainy women as a rule those 
truly great values which men seem to need from 
women—childlikeness, unconsciousness, emotion¬ 
ality, uncritical faith, and—well, shimmering 
moods, beautiful bodies, spontaneity.” 

Phyllis had shifted her position, at this junc¬ 
ture, with an inward agony and incipient panic. 
Unconsciously she raised her hand to her hair, 
smoothed out her laces. 

“Can’t a woman possess both?” she had 
asked, with appeal in her eyes. “You know 
Pascal’s requirement for greatness—to unite in 
one’s self opposite virtues and occupy all the 
space between them!” 

“The great ones do, I suppose,” Gregory 
had smiled appreciatively, toying with a vase 
on the piano, “but this is a serious thing to 
an ordinary man. His hard labor in the world, 
I have a hunch, is to a large degree based on 


44 


Two Women 


zest for the values I just enumerated. It re¬ 
quires a great deal more mental adjustment to 
be in love with a woman with real brains than 
with the doll type, who fits into man’s primitive 
nature without effort. Also— and here’s the 
rub—it requires unusual art for a woman with 
brains to remain a woman and not become a 
neuter thing. When she is neuter with ideas 
she is no longer something men want to fight 
for. One can fight to see a woman’s face shine 
with emotionality; work like a horse to put 
beautiful things on her and create a home foi 
her, and see her love and play with children. 
But, dash it, somehow the average man does not 
get the same stimulus from a woman with qual¬ 
ities like his own that he gets from one. with 
qualities unlike his own. He needs contrast as 
well as harmony, To use the lingo of the artist, 
a man must have in his mating, as in a fine 
painting, all the 'primary colors present, some¬ 
how; however subtley shaded and blended. He 
represents blue, let us say. Love represents 
yellow, and the woman must then supply the 
other missing primary—red. If she, too, wants 
to furnish blue, there’s a vital thing missing, 
and a man instinctively knows it. Don’t blame 
us if we who are blue pursue the red — it’s nec¬ 
essary to true art—to say nothing of the race!” 

And with that he had looked at his watch, 
apologized gayly for his sermonizing and rather 


Two Women 


45 


suddenly departed—leaving Phyllis profoundly 
arrested in thought and scarcely able for the 
rest of the night to sink into sleep. She stirred 
frequently, uttering halfspoken questions which 
she wanted him to answer and determined to 
have him do so. 


CHAPTEK V 


All day at the office Phyllis was moody. 

“Aren’t you sick?” asked her faithful woman 
Friday, Estelle Cooper. 

4 ‘Do I look it?” quickly replied the troubled 
Phyllis, concentrating with an effort to be her 
natural self. The rest of the day, and of two 
or three days, was an alternation between two 
personalities; the Phyllis of previous days,keen 
about her job, thoroughly content with her life, 
and a new Phyllis vaguely, dully aware of some¬ 
thing amiss. 

Into the office a few days later came for a 
social call on some pretext—quite as usual— 
one of the advertising staff, a youngster not 
long out of college, Dick Englebert, bringing 
from his alma mater astonishingly little intel¬ 
lectual interest, but an equally astonishing ease 
of manner and skill at human contacts. Phyllis 
had rather tolerated him, feeling vastly superior 
mentally, but amused at his wise flips at human 
nature. Everybody in the office liked him. 

“Hello,” he said, in his free manner. “Got 
46 


Two Women 


47 


tickets for Pavlowa tonight. Am I in luck—will 
you come?” 

Phyllis looked up from the mess of make-up 
proofs, paste and page forms and felt her usual 
reaction: interest in the affair she was to be 
escorted to, but no relish for the job of repaying 
him for the escort and the tickets with boresome 
small talk and a graciousness she didn’t feel. 
She had remembrances of other nights when he 
had taken her here and there (always to places 
of interest to her; for he had no trouble in 
reading her tastes), but which, except for the 
period when the performance was on, were filled 
with repeated wishes that she could escape 
quickly. Sometimes the strain of laughing and 
nodding at the right moment, of appearing to 
be interested, had been almost unbearable and 
she had often acted mystifyingly in her effort 
to get relief. She would appear absorbed in 
her program during intermission until she felt 
ashamed of herself; and she had gotten into the 
habit of fibbing about her sister’s need of her 
to avoid having him take her to dinner; meet¬ 
ing him instead at the theatre entrance. She 
had even feigned headaches, or gone into a 
booth to do some telephoning while he patiently 
waited outside, in order to cut down the time 
she spent with him. 

Today, however, as she looked up at his vig¬ 
orous young face, a new sensation came over 


48 


Two Women 


her, which made her drop her eyes quickly, with 
most irritating and surprising confusion. It 
was the more irritating to her because she knew 
it was quite impersonal. It was nothing more 
nor less than that for the first time since she 
could remember she was looking at a man from 
the viewpoint of a young woman who had been 
moved to consider getting married. She had a 
definite impulse to encourage him, since she 
knew he had every usual eligibility. She felt 
herself flushing and quite furious with herself. 

'“Oh, ... I don’t think I’ll go,” she replied, 
in a gray tone. 

Englebert was a salesman and he knew by 
heart the tone of indecision and its meaning. 

“You know,” he said, not in the least crest¬ 
fallen at her hesitation, “they say Pavlowa may 
go to Europe soon for a long tour. Better try 
another think. Make it yes.” A particularly 
handsome smile accompanied his words. 

Phyllis appreciatively observed his technique, 
her eyes sparkling. 

“All right,” she said brightly, displaying that 
feminine satisfaction at having her mind made 
up for her, which is always a mystery to man. 
But her satisfaction was also more subtle than 
that. Her acceptance was a sop to the dis¬ 
quietude inside of her; a disquietude she had 
not been able to shake oft. It made her feel 
less tense. 


Two Women 


49 


They hailed a Fifth Avenue bus and mounted 
to the upper level under sea-going difficulties, 
Englebert displaying a college-boy playfulness 
in the effort to prevent collisions as they sought 
a seat. 

“This is the flapper’s spooning deck,” he 
observed jocosely, “so let’s get up front as 
far as possible so I won’t get sea-sickness of 
the heart by what I see, and try to hold your 
hand. ’ ’ 

OPhyllis giggled—she was aware a second later 
that it really had been a giggle; and the editor- 
Phyllis part of her cast an outraged sneer at 
it. But the new maiden-Phyllis in her was not 
at all withered by the sneer—was in fact a bit 
exultant in it. Was it not reassurance that she 
was still woman and youthful! She willingly 
giggled a little more and still a little more; 
while with a skill born of long experience at 
“fussing” in college days, Englebert kept up a 
running fire of giggle-making raillery, each sally 
of which put Phyllis’ risibilities further out of 
control, until Englebert had but to say, “If 
another red-beard comes up here, I move we 
stop and get off and have an ice cream soda 
to cool off,” and she would instantly laugh 
gigglishly and helplessly. 

All the time the editor-Phyllis was scathingly 
characterizing the action as silly, but getting 
very scant attention from the Phyllis in power. 


50 


Two Women 


Noticing that the couple back of them were 
‘ 6 listening in” on their conversation, Englebert 
raised his voice dramatically for their benefit. 

“Sadie,” he intoned, with heavy breathing, 
“I swear if you don’t give up that man, I’ll 
murder my three children and my wife tonight 
with a hatchet and shoot myself. I will! I 
tell you, I will! Oh, say you’ll give him up!” 

At which Phyllis had an almost unmanagable 
series of internal giggle-explosions, as the couple 
behind obviously caught their breath and 
throbbed with excitement. They kept up the 
dramatic conversation for five minutes, while 
the blood of the couple behind them apparently 
ran cold and hot. Finally they burst into shouts 
of laughter to the infinite disgust of the eaves¬ 
dropping couple, who promptly got off. 

Englebert suddenly dropped his persiflage and 
changed completely in his mood. 

“You must think I’m a regular small-time 
vaudeville actor,” he said, stiffening up, with 
something of apology in his tone. He appeared 
suddenly to realize that he was with a young 
lady of a “high-brow” reputation, who no doubt 
was inwardly despising his “low-brow” antics. 

“Have you read Fitzgerald’s new book?” he 
asked, in a now-let ’s-have-some-serious-conver- 
sation tone which, if he had only known it, 
stirred up instant rebellion and alarm in Phyllis. 
Her little excursion into girlishness was rudely 


Two Women 


51 


being ended, and she was being tagged once 
more with the same alarming tag. She had an 
overpowering yearning that he take her to be 
just a sweet silly young thing. She must be 
just a girl. 

“Oh, I don’t like Fitzgerald,” she replied 
quickly, almost maliciously, “don’t let’s talk 
about him.” It was particularly disagreeable 
that he should have spoken of Fitzgerald, her 
mood having recently been further depressed by 
a reading of that author’s last novel. 

Englebert was puzzled. He was out of depth, 
he instinctively felt in discussing literary mat¬ 
ters, but he was on parade before her and he 
must make good, or one of those editor or re¬ 
porter guys would appear to greater advantage. 

“That fellow Sinclair, though, sure did knock 
out a book that has set people going, didn’t 
he?” Englebert continued, thrusting cautiously 
about, like an elephant trying a bridge, for a 
literary starting point. 

“Yes,” replied Phyllis, her gigglishness com¬ 
pletely cured and in its place a reaction of dead 
soberness. 

“Those hick towns he writes about must be 
awful dumps, but all you have to do is look at a 
map and you’ll see thousands of them in the 
Unitedindryness States. Sinclair snapped one of 
them when it wasn’t looking, all right; don’t you 
think so?” 


52 


Two Women 


“Yes,” replied Phyllis. She had a miserable 
sliding sensation; a wearying feeling, like that 
of a man opening his eyes to his poverty after 
having had temporary surcease of a soul through 
a dream of affluence. For a brief while she had 
been just a giggling girl, titillated by a man, 
with matrimony, home and children in the pur¬ 
ple offing. Now she was a bluestocking again, 
bored with the individual man, whose mind was 
disclosing itself as a rag-carpet pattern. 

Englebert floundered, with increasing intent¬ 
ness, from one literary topic to another, sensing 
readily that something was wrong, losing his 
sang froid increasingly as he felt his failure. 
He tried politics with a little better success, but 
at best Phyllis’ responses were mechanical; 
sometimes even half-savagely vindictive as she 
cut into his mental morass with sharp clear 
logic. 

“Saw Harding ride up the Avenue today, did 
you?” Englebert ventured with casual bluff ness, 
as he changed to politics. “You have to hand 
it to him for smoothness, whatever your poli¬ 
tics; don’t you think so?” 

“Why?” asked Phyllis, dully and with mis¬ 
giving. 

* 4 Well,” countered Englebert, who had ex¬ 
pected his remark to get Phyllis to talk, not to 
call for further elucidation; “look at the fellow: 


Two Women 


53 


he’s taking those quarrelsome birds down there 
and smoothing their feathers. I call it slick.” 

“But is he a statesman?” 

“Well, what if he isn’t? You’ve got to be 
a politician to run this country. Abraham 
Lincolns aren’t born every day, and anyhow 
those would-be statesmen make me and a lot 
of other people tired. They pose as know-it- 
alls, and they don’t know how to play the game. 
I was brought up in the old Tenth Ward and 
I learned one or two things about politics, 
hanging around the Young Men’s Club. Tim 
Sullivan stuff; shoes for the poor and picnics— 
yes, and beer; that’s what checks in on election 
day.” 

Phyllis never hated the commonplace mind 
more bitterly than at that moment; it had come 
between her and her little fantasy of romance. 
Instinct had called to her to love; the mid¬ 
summer night’s dream had ruefully ended in 
the discovery that by her pesky mind that she 
had been adoring donkey’s ears. She kept im¬ 
agining herself, down the years, by this man’s 
side day after day, and she felt a panic-stricken 
welling up of ennui at the prospect. 

Sensing his irretrievable failure in intellec¬ 
tual realms, Englebert, ever light on his feet, 
endeavored to invoke again the spirit of fun. 
But never another giggle could he conjure from 
the now perfectly composed little rose-leaf face 


54 


Two Women 


beside him. She looked at him with no more 
coy glances; ventured no more sidling postures 
which, for her, were the rarest flowerings of 
a maidenhood struggling for sunlight beneath 
the sicklier overhanging of the tree of thought. 

The rest of the evening was spent with Engle- 
bert largely in the background, and Phyllis 
readily lost herself in pure aesthetic delight in 
the little Russian dancer. She refused a late 
supper and bade him a very brief thanks and 
good night. 

In the middle of the night she awoke to find 
herself sobbing. With an exclamation of vague 
uneasiness and impatience she threw her braid 
of hair across her shoulder and went more or 
less soundly to sleep. At another interval she 
awoke to find herself uncontrollably giggling. 


CHAPTER VI 


For several months Phyllis pressed herself 
upon her work with almost emotional energy 
and exclusion. The little excursion into that 
field familiar to so many women—conscious 
campaigning for a husband—had bruised her 
sensibilities and given her a backward push 
into an half-acknowledged kind of disgust with 
man. 

Mark Stockman had tried vainly to tempt 
her to spend evenings with him; but as usual 
she had granted him merely a few fringes of 
her days. Dick Englebert, entirely abashed, 
made various eager suggestions, but was a- 
warded no more than the privilege of escorting 
her home from a Westchester County visit to 
a celebrity, who had set a rather inconvenient 
hour for an interview. 

To her own surprise, however, she found 
Mark Stockman a steadily increasing pleasure 
and a help. He was intricately familiar with all 
that she was doing or trying to do, and he had 
definite and ready decisions and suggestions on 
55 


56 


Two Women 


all questions she discussed with him. His in¬ 
cisive definiteness and assurance was anodyne 
to a painfully floundering personality. In her 
new intensity of concentration upon her job she 
found it most satisfactory to consult him about 
her work problems, and Mark was only too 
eager to serve, for it fed his hungry desire to 
mean something to her. Nevertheless, feeling 
that she was giving him the right to ask more 
of her time, by seeking his counsel and help, 
she choked off her own desire to talk to him 
more often. Mark was not a man who could be 
“handled” with the usual phrases of polite 
society—he had an uncomfortable way of being 
blunt to the point of embarrassment, and of 
probing her with an intense personal interest 
that tended to upset her maidenly dignity. 

“You come with me for dinner on Thursday 
at the Cocked Hat over in the Village, and we’ll 
dope out the whole thing from start to finish,” 
he said for instance, as a project of Phyllis’ 
was broached, which could not well be worked 
out while standing at her building entrance. 

“I will some time,” she replied vaguely. 

“Why not Thursday?” he shot back. “Have 
you an engagement with someone else?” 

“No-o,” she replied, resenting the inquiry. 

“Well, then, why not?” snapped Mark, who 
was constantly tortured with a desire to manage 
her summarily and to quicken her indecisiveness. 


Two Women 


57 


“This special issue of yours is a good one and 
it will mean a lot to you if you can put it 
through. Here I am, keen to help you and 
you put me oft vaguely. Is this plan of yours 
merely a play toy, or am I no good to you?” 

“Of course you are!” exclaimed Phyllis, 
“but—” 

'“Buts won’t help this job any,” cut in Mark, 
clinging vigorously to his practical reason for 
seeing her again soon, the muscles of his ag¬ 
gressive jaw knotting and playing in the man¬ 
ner so familiar and characteristic of him. “You 
mustn’t flivver this thing. Let’s make it Thurs¬ 
day.” 

Phyllis let his words fade without answering 
for the moment as she looked at him. She had 
always before been perfectly certain she could 
never long endure this man, with his score of 
minor irritations to her sensitive spirit; but 
for a moment she caught sight through him of 
a very stimulative relationship, where she would 
be the flint and he the steel, to strike most re- 
sultfully one upon the other. She accepted the 
dinner suggestion, and together in the dingy 
little restaurant the next Thursday, they en¬ 
thusiastically worked out her plan, which became 
so absorbing that she noted neither the passage 
of time, nor was particularly personally con¬ 
scious of him. She almost forgot to thank him 
when they parted. 


58 


Two Women 


However, her new immersion in her work 
was rudely interrupted, when one day she was 
called into the office of the publisher of her 
periodical there to be introduced to a beady- 
eyed, bald-headed little man with a secretive 
air. 

“This is Mr. E. H. Lorton,” said Col. May¬ 
nard, the publisher, introducing her with his 
customary gallantry, so redolent of an old and 
passing school of men. “He has just concluded 
the purchase of the magazine from me. I re¬ 
gret to say that I find myself unable to give 
it the time I ought to and find I must cut down 
my responsibilities.” Then, with his courtly 
gesture, turning to his successor, he said, I 
hope, Mr. Lorton will value your services as 
highly as we have. Miss Batterman, I want to say 
to you, Mr. Lorton, has lent a-ah-particular lustre 
to our pages for a long time.” 

Lorton bowed with oddly contrasting lack of 
grace and replied almost hurriedly, with an 
obvious failure at mixing courtliness and busi¬ 
ness, “I hope so—I hope so. You know, Miss 
Batterman, I am technically asking everyone 
to place their resignation in my hands—just 
technically, y’understand—as I must have a free 
hand. The paper has not, of course been a 
financial success,”—Phyllis hated him at once 
for his patronizing attitude in so smugly as¬ 
suming this to be a blot on the ’scutcheon of 


Two Women 


59 


the paper—“and I do not know what I shall 
have to do to make it so. Go about your work 
in the customary manner and I will let you 
know when my plans are ready.” 

That was all. Not a bit of the expansive, genial 
interest in the whole rich gamut of life which 
had always previously marked her interviews 
with her old “boss;” nor the genial teasing and 
elderly flirtatiousness with which he had always 
graced her chats. Now in the twinkling of an 
eye there was a new “boss” (she had been fond 
of calling the old one that—probably because 
he had not shown the slightest tendency to boss 
her). And the new boss, she instinctively read 
in his bearing, was a boss in all the meanings 
of the word. He was a counting room man; 
and she had imbibed, with the rest of the 
editorial tribe, the contempt, if not fear, of the 
counting room point of view. He obviously knew 
little and cared less about the issues of the day 
—making and selling printed merchandise would 
be his perspective; no more. He marked the 
coming of the supremacy of the business success 
idea over the editorial dilettante idea. Of course 
the Colonel had not made money with his paper 
—it had been an avocation, a hobby; to be pain¬ 
fully exact, a philanthropy, indirectly, to em¬ 
ployees and readers. 

Phyllis walked slowly back to her office. How 
she loved it! The big sprawling table with dark 


60 


Two Women 


walnut legs of dusty carvings, heaped with a 
heaving, sagging mass of books, clippings, en¬ 
velopes, photographs, galley proofs, pastepots 
and cigarette trays; drawings and portfolios 
standing, or rather curling weakly against the 
wall, trying to keep off the floor; and a dusty 
plaster Venus of large size standing atop an 
ancient bookcase, creaking and overloaded long 
ago with books. Books, books, and still more 
books everywhere, even in stacks on the floor. 

Estelle Cooper was arguing with a shirt¬ 
sleeved and aproned man from the composing 
room. 

‘ 4 That Jimmy Pfister person will drive me 
mad some day,” said Estelle, in a little con¬ 
versational system they had—going on with 
their work while talking, without looking up. 
“He has pied the whole of that poem!” 

There was no answer, and Estelle looked up. 
In utter contrast to her usual busy, officious 
manner at her desk, Phyllis was idle, deaf and 
drooping. Estelle rose as precipitately as a 
swallow from a limb; Phyllis was her sun, moon 
and stars; her lover and her child, with a wor¬ 
ship which perhaps neither lover nor child 
might have inspired as Phyllis did, by the sheer 
magic of her beauty, which, contrary to common 
belief, a woman worships quite as deeply as a 
man. 

Rising and laying her hand on Phyllis ’ shoul- 


Two Women 


61 


der, Estelle said, her heart in her eyes, “Why 
not go home, my dear, if you’re not feeling 
well?” 

Looking up with her large, over-serious eyes, 
Phyllis replied with some difficulty, “We—we’re 
all sold out to a new man.” 

Estelle looked blank and Phyllis laughed a 
little shrilly, “Col. Maynard has sold the paper 
. . . to a—a—need I describe it?” 

Estelle, never fresh in color, faded to a gray- 
brown shade and worked her hands distressfully. 
Her job, she knew, was more or less unreplace- 
able and the loss of it meant, perhaps again, 
dependence on an undependable husband; but 
more unbearable still no longer working with 
Phyllis. 

“Oh, we’re not tired yet,” responded Phyllis 
with a bold attempt at jocularity. “Cheer up, 
old girl! He’s too canny to turn us out before he 
gets onto our curves! Maybe ... oh, well!” 
Phyllis, remembering the cold, entirely material¬ 
istic attitude of the new boss, was herself 
stopped from an effort to cheer up her assistant 
(hoping also, by a little loud whistling, to allay 
her own fears). 

She could not hide her own feelings, for just 
at this juncture in her life, her job was admit¬ 
tedly her all. She was frightened, appalled at 
the very thought of its possible disappearance. 
She shivered and fought vainly with a volley of 
tears. 


62 


Two Women 


What was a blow in the afternoon became a 
catastrophe at night. In her own room, reason¬ 
ing detachedly, she felt the inevitability of the 
coming event. In her mind’s eye she could see 
the little drama unfold—the complete cleaning 
up of Col. Maynard’s deliciously messed up den; 
the hauling down of the prints and photos of 
the writers and public men he liked—and the 
substitution of modern oak flat top desks for 
the creaky old furniture. She saw the paper 
blossom forth with a pretty girl cover, and per¬ 
haps—it was a noxious pill to swallow, even in 
imagination—it would become one of the ever- 
increasing horde of cheaply pandering maga¬ 
zines, not only without editorials, but perhaps 
even without articles. To fiction Phyllis was al¬ 
most a stranger editorially—it was a special¬ 
ized world. She felt she had no flair for it. 

Even if she were retained under the new re¬ 
gime, she knew it would irk her horribly. She 
would probably have to punch a time clock. And 
without the job . . . she suffered actual physical 
pain at the thought. 

“I’m married to it,” she said, with tortured 
irony, as she sat before her dressing table, in a 
restless attempt to employ her hands at her toi¬ 
let to distract her mind. “It’s my baby, my hus¬ 
band and my home,” she went on speaking in an 
odd, unmodulated tone, as she often did when 
talking things over with herself in her room. 


Two Women 


63 


“And now—I’m being divorced as cooly as one 

dismisses the iceman. What shall I do 1 . 

I feel so cast off!” She ended on a falsetto note, 
close to tears. 

But, alas, she felt a volume of loneliness 
growing rapidly in her breast. Sometimes it al¬ 
most overflowed her composure and she had 
thought of calling up—whom? It was a curious 
revelation to her that it was Mark Stockman 
more often than anyone else. But that, appar¬ 
ently, was only unconscious. Reasoning, she de¬ 
cided to call on the McAvoys. Between Hannah 
and Herbert’s ample optimism, good cheer and 
friendly resourcefulness she ought to regain her 
composure. 

She tried the next day to arrange to see the 
McAvoys, but with the oft-told concatenation of 
calamities, she could reach neither Hannah at 
her home nor Herbert at his office. In addition 
the morning’s mail had contained two jarring 
disappointments; a well-known woman changed 
her mind about permitting an interview to be 
printed after Phyllis had sent her proofs as 
promised; and she received back from the At¬ 
lantic Monthly an essay she had ambitiously 
labored over. 

Not even Estelle was in the office, having 
gone to Jersey to secure an interview. 

And then after coming in from lunch she saw 
a strange green unstamped envelope on her 



64 


Two Women 


desk. The office reeled in her eyes; she knew by 
clairvoyance what the envelope meant before she 
opened the vile thing, so fittingly gowned in 
green. 

The note was worse than even she might have 
imagined had she tried: 

Please consider this your notification that 
after the 15th of the month we shall be ob¬ 
liged to dispense with yonr services. Thanking 
you for past services, etc. 

F. H. Lorton. 

The bald, cold crudity of it struck Phyllis as 
cruelly as a brass knuckle in the hands of a 
thug. Even the redundancy of phraseology was 
repugnantly suggestive of the paper’s literary 
doom. With all the entwining capacity of her 
sex, and all the personalizing of her relation to 
her work, which woman’s special nature so 
readily accomplishes, Phyllis had become almost 
inextricably merged with her job. There was no 
parallel for such a catastrophe excepting that 
of a young girl’s lover who suddenly and rudely 
jilts her after she has wrapped her very soul in¬ 
to his keeping. All her imperturbability van¬ 
ished and she found herself stormed by unen¬ 
durable emotions. Her knees shook and she 
felt as if she would suffocate; felt absurdly as 
if she wanted to do what she hadn’t done since 
she was a little girl—throw herself on the floor 
and cry out with a breaking heart. But she 


Two Women 


65 


couldn’t cry; six or eight years of an almost 
emotionless life, a period without a pang or a 
heartbreak, had left her parched and bleak of 
the blessing of tears. She only knew that she 
must get away from that office; must cling to 
something, somebody, or die. She felt also 
fiercely resentful that those she had relied upon 
were not there to help her—not even Estelle, 
who was always instant at her elbow in any 
need. 

She got by the general office—always a 
gauntlet of young men with eyes to spare for 
her from their rapid work—and walked a block 
before she thought of deciding upon an objec¬ 
tive. Strangely enough, again she thought of 
Mark, and as conscious reason was not steering 
her, she did call him. 

As she heard his voice, a warm feeling suf¬ 
fused her and almost unconsciously she leaned 
against the telephone booth in a relaxation of 
tension. Even Mark, however, seemed indiffer¬ 
ent in her sudden cataclysmic world. His voice 
seemed harsh, faraway, heedless of this over¬ 
whelming need of hers. 

“I—I want to see you tonight.” 

“I’ll be up at eight,” came the reply, prompt 
and decisive. “Is that 0. K.?” 

“Yes,” answered Phyllis into the steel box 
which purported to connect her with another 
human being, but which at that moment seemed 


66 


Two Women 


sardonically to reflect the cold heedlessness with 
which the entire world had suddenly become in¬ 
vested. Having changed in a trice her tempe¬ 
rature from one of notorious frigidity to a hec¬ 
tic and molten state, she naturally saw things 
in reverse from usual. She had an instinctive 
yearning—quite new to her—for warmth, emo¬ 
tionality, tender solicitude. 

To Mark, who presented himself punctually, 
Phyllis outwardly seemed quite as usual, al¬ 
though she was not conscious of any repressions 
of her inward tearfulness. 

Phyllis was toiletted at her best—for she had 
used up the intervening time upon her appear¬ 
ance, with a woman’s inveterate inventorying of 
physical charm when calamity falls. 

She came up to him, in a filmy gown of cobalt 
blue, winged with lace and an old brooch on her 
breast; her bearing still, to him, involuted with 
that unconscious arrogance so much a part of 
her which was both attractive and repellent. Her 
eyes were clear of tears and her lips did not be¬ 
tray anything of her tremulous uncertainties. 

“W?ell, I’m fired,” she said, with braggadocio 
lightness; a lightness which illustrated how the 
modern woman was developing man’s external 
hardness and emancipation from weakness. It 
was sheer “face”; it meant everything that it 
did not say. 

If Mark had failed to grasp what her “firing” 


Two Women 


67 


really meant to her, the entire evening might 
have been maintained in that tone—at least as 
long as she could have stood his presence. 

But Mark knew his Phyllis far more definite¬ 
ly than she knew herself, from intense pragma¬ 
tic study. 

Throwing his hat at a distant chair, with a 
tremendous thrust, Mark sprang forward and 
took her hands. 

“Darling child!” A rich gamut of feelings 
was mixed in his tone as he pressed her hands 
and looked the sympathy he felt. There was 
nothing light in his voice. 

And then Phyllis broke involuntarily, com¬ 
pletely. She struggled and sobbed in turn, un¬ 
der a veritable Niagara of emotion, leaning to¬ 
ward him from sheer unsteadiness. All her care¬ 
ful toilet went awry as he disregarded every¬ 
thing and crudely comforted her with his arms. 
In addition to her cause for weeping and her 
embarrassment at crying for the first time in 
the arms of a man, a third embarrassment dis¬ 
tressed her almost equally—an unpresentable 
face. To a meticulous little peacock like herself, 
this bulked large. The combination unmasked 
her completely. It was the first time in her life 
that she had humiliated herself to anyone but 
her mother; the first time that she was herself 
without reserve in all her womanly frailties of 
temperament. This for her, who so scrupulous- 


68 


Two Women 


ly guarded the citadels of her personality and 
prides, was epochal. For a time even after the 
storm was over she dreaded to look up; dreaded 
to talk to Mark for she knew that some relation¬ 
ship she did not understand and which embar¬ 
rassed her, had now taken the place of the purely 
critically, impersonal, even supercilious aloof¬ 
ness she had maintained. 

With a slight shiver of strangeness she sensed 
it in the way Mark handled her. Quite as though 
she were, bag and baggage, his property (so it 
seemed to her) he arranged her hair as he still 
looked downward on his chest; took one of his 
own fresh handkerchiefs and wiped her eyes, 
and drew in place a string of beads on her neck. 
He lifted her off her feet of a sudden and took 
her to the divan. In his stupid male way he sup¬ 
posed that she would look at him tear-stained. 
She sprang up and vanished into her bedroom, 
staying for what seemed an interminable time . . 

“Well, let ’em have the old job; what do I 
care!” she said, appearing suddenly, her head in 
the air and the same braggadocio lightness in 
her voice. She was coolly powdered, perfectly 
aplomb and she was trying to push things back 
to where they had been. 

Mark, with his hatred for pretense, then pos¬ 
itively frightened her. Striding to her, he said 
in a flush of feeling, and a new note of com¬ 
mand in his voice, “Oh, come now, cut out that 


Two Women 


69 


‘dog!’ Let’s get down to brass tacks, Phyllis. 
Yon know perfectly well that yon’re heartbrok¬ 
en and why not admit it! It’s an absolute ca¬ 
lamity and we might as well face it. Jnst as I 
warned yon months ago, yon should anticipate it 
and prepare for if. I’ve known a long time that 
Col. Maynard couldn’t keep up the paper much 
longer, with publishing costs what they are to¬ 
day. I want you to sit down with me, analyze 
your career with some horse sense, and let me 
help you plan it.” 

As usual Mark’s positiveness jangled her sen¬ 
sibilities, while at the same time galvanizing her 
mind. 

“All right,” she countered, still clinging to 
light tones and sitting down with mock resigna¬ 
tion; “now map out my life for me.” 

The temptation was too much for Mark. 

“I want you to marry me, first,” he blurted 
out, his face alive with hope. The words seemed 
to come from him without having been bidden. 
The next moment occurred what his excellent 
reasoning powers might have forwarned him 
would happen. 

Phyllis laughed her own self-possessed laugh. 
Mark’s precipitate eagnerness had put matters 
quite back to normal—she was again master of 
herself, and of him. Whether men hate too 
much or love too much, the result is the same— 


70 


Two Women 


they surrender the advantage to the object of 
their over-stressed emotion. 

“ ‘Marry me’, quoth the lordly knight, ‘or I 
shall not rescue you!’ ” mocked Phyllis, cling¬ 
ing to her humorous advantage and relief, “Fie, 
fie!” 

“Yes, marry me first,” continued Mark, but 
his flush indicating that he had sensed once 
more a loss of control. “Then”—he hesitated 
slightly. 

“Then?” . . . prompted Phyllis, teasingly. 

“Then I’d make you do what is best for 
you!” concluded Mark, darkly and heavily. 

Again Phyllis’ self-medicating laughter rang 
out. 

“Make me, would you, 0, Tarzan of the apes? 
Delicious! And am I now supposed to be thrilled 
and set the day?” 

Mark made no reply. He was no match for 
her in sheer repartee. Force, energy, direct¬ 
ness and action were things he understood; 
fencing and finesse came more slowly. 

But in his very silence lay his best reply, for 
Phyllis understood quite well his vivid interest 
in her career; and even half believed him right. 
His silence had therefore the cutting edge of 
disdain. Moreover, she was more than curious 
to know how he would plan her life. While the 
soporific effect of her now-vanished job had al¬ 
ways kept in the background a realization of her 


Two Women 


71 


aimlessness, she was at least half ready tonight 
to admit that her future appeared a confused 
jumble of emotions, traditional expectations, and 
vague ambitions. 

“All right, silent knight,’’ parried Phyllis, 
while Mark somewhat moodily looked at her in 
his intense, searching way that was often dis¬ 
concerting. “We will play that we have set the 
day. What are your plans for my life, respect¬ 
ful sir?” 

Rising swiftly, Mark seized her by the arms. 
“Very well, we have set the day,” he breathed 
with the utmost seriousness; his eyes focused 
upon her with a fixed stare which was always 
to Phyllis a bivalent source of both attraction 
and repulsion. “You are mine, mine; you must 
obey me a little bit, anyhow.” Phyllis feared he 
was going to claim caresses on the strength of 
her play-idea; but a moment later she realized 
with distinct confusion to her ideas of him that 
this was far from his mind. 

“You’ve got to stop aimless toying; you’ve 
got to build definitely toward an editorship. 
You’ve got to know more about life; understand 
fiction values, because everything is fiction in 
magazinedom today. You’ve got to quit being 
a literary snob and understand People with a 
capital P, and writing for the people. You”— 
Mark’s volubility ceased as suddenly as it be¬ 
gan. 


72 


Two Women 


“Go on,” said Phyllis, transfixed even more 
by his deadset earnestness than by his program. 
She was only becoming acquainted with this 
man. 

Mark shook her gently by the shoulders at 
this point. “And you must adjust yourself per¬ 
sonally to the kind of a world you’re living in 
and the kind of desires you have.” 

“Which means what?” asked Phyllis, still 
lightly. “And won’t you sit down, Tarzan?” 

Mark sat down beside her, retaining her hand 
in both of his. “I mean, you’ll have to make 
some decisions, instead of being pushed this 
way and that by the divided currents that swirl 
women about nowadays. What are you? Do you 
know? An old-fashioned girl at bottom wanting 
only a husband and family.” 

“No!” cried Phyllis with feeling hidden under 
a mien and tone ot humor. 

“Or are you really and truly interested in a 
line of work and willing to grind hard toward 
quality in that work? Or are you wanting both, 
and don’t know how to get them? And if so, 
what do you know about men and love and mar¬ 
riage? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!” 

“She echoed, nothing!” answered Phyllis, de¬ 
risively. 

“I won’t have you kicking your own unsettled 
future around like a basket ball,” responded 
Mark, angrily. “Can’t you think ahead at all, 


Two Women 


73 


or do you just always want to wait for the 
bumps to strike? If so, HI talk about the new¬ 
est play or something.’’ 

“Why do you think my future is so serious?” 
asked Phyllis. 

“Because it’s my future as well,” exploded 
Mark. “You know perfectly well I love you,” 
he finished, belligerently. 

“Then don’t say it in a tone as if you were 
scolding the waiter in a restaurant,” cried Phyl¬ 
lis, laughing outrageously. 

Again Mark flushed in the helplessness of his 
familiar lack of flair and finesse in his love re¬ 
lationship. “I can’t help it that I’m not smooth 
at love-making,” he said, almost irritably. “And 
what’s more, I don’t see who could be, with you 
standing coolly by ready to poke fun. Even Ga¬ 
latea came warming to life from cold marble 
when made love to —” 

“But she had an artist as a lover; a man who 
could make love wonderfully,” teased Phyllis. It 
is written in the laws of nature that women goad 
their lovers. 

“Very well,” retorted Mark, stiffly. “We’ll 
drop all conversation about my feelings or your 
career.” 

“O, dear,” sighed Phyllis, meditating serious¬ 
ly; her eyes once more assuming her habitually 
sober, inquiring expression. “Why is life such 
a crazy-quilt, I wonder? I don’t know what I 


74 


Two Women 


want! I admit it. I don’t know what I am; I ad¬ 
mit it. I don’t know what I’m going to do next. 
And I can’t even talk with you about these 
things: we always fight.” 

“We wouldn’t fight,” Mark explained ear¬ 
nestly, 4 4 if you settled this matter of marrying 
me.” 

Phyllis laughed again. 4 ‘How can I help it?” 
she asked. “You appear to ask me to settle the 
problem irrevocably in a certain way, and then 
argue what to do! Isn’t it ridiculous—honest¬ 
ly, isn’t it? I don’t want to seem harsh, but 
that isn’t even all the ridiculousness. You say 
‘marry me’! Whereas I am pretty sure I don’t 
love you, as I’ve told you before. Can’t you 
see/” 

Mark sat in stony silence, his eyes gray and 
stark still as granite. He did not want to “see”; 
could not accept what was placed before him to 
“see.” Like other men before him, he cared 
less for the volatile state of a woman’s heart at 
the moment than for securing her concretely as 
his own. Her “noes” merely reinforced his 
“yes”; he did not know how to give up; that 
one saw in the knots of muscle which played 
about his jaws, and in the instinctive dogged¬ 
ness of all his purposes. 

“The question of marrying me is settled, 
then,” continued Phyllis; “now can’t we talk 
without fighting?” 


Two Women 


75 


But Mark was moody; his replies monosylla¬ 
bic and his reasoning processes impaired by the 
state of his feelings, which were at a low ebb at 
being once more coolly refused. The evening 
was not a success and he left early. For Phyl¬ 
lis, Mark’s visit had acted to some extent as a 
lightning rod for her tense feelings, but left a 
depressant undertone of confusion of mind. 
Never had she been so thoroughly at sea, pulled 
this way and that by cross currents, without ob¬ 
jective port, compass or chart. 

Again, at her toilet table she talked to herself, 
her voice pitched this time in a minor key. 
“Marry Mark? No, no, I just simply could not 
stand him . . . even though it was very comfort¬ 
ing the early part of the evening . . . yet so 
crude! Why, he hitches up his trousers in front 
of a woman! . . . and, the way he eats! . . Think 
of introducing him at one of Aunt Sarah’s 
teas! . . . I’ve seen him put both lemon and 
cream in his tea!” . . . 

She dreamed that night that he was beating 
her. She woke up under the fancied sting of 
one of his blows, and the stern hard glare of 
his eyes upon her. 


CHAPTER VII. 


“Won't yon run over and have tea with me?” 
came a voice over the wire. 

66 Who is this?” asked Pauline Long at her 
phone, sitting atop a very paper-screwn desk in 
her cramped furnished room, alias “studio.” 

“This is Phyllis Batterman—don't you recog¬ 
nize my voice?” 

Pauline's eyes rolled and widened. 

“Why Phillis Batterman!” she exclaimed; “a 
voice out of the grave!” 

A self-conscious laugh came back in reply: “I 
guess I am. Do come. I haven't had a Halk-fest' 
with you for a long time.” 

“Of course I will ... at five . . . Goodby.” 
Down hard on the desk with the telephone. Fin¬ 
gers of each hand to each cheek, and tongue 
meditatively struck against her upper teeth 
(one of her odd ways when alone; clung to from 
little girlhood). “Weill . . . She never has in¬ 
vited me like this—it's always been some chance, 
casual invitation, and rare at that! I’ve always 
done the urging; yes, even fished for an invita- 
76 


Two Women 


77 


tion. And for a month or more I haven’t seen 
anything of her. What does it mean? Is ... is 
she—going—to—tell—me—” Phyllis grew stiff 
and cold and thnmpy inside, as she thought of 
a possible announcement by Phyllis of an en¬ 
gagement to Mark. For her pain at Mark’s de¬ 
votion to Phyllis had not abated one jot since 
the day she had so utterly abandoned herself to 
tears at the McAvoys, and Herbert McAvoy 
had rescued her with his humor. Mark had been 
with her occasionally since then, but to one of 
Pauline’s uncanny clairvoyance, it was quite ob¬ 
vious that his heart was with Phyllis, for he 
never failed in some way to get to the subject 
of Phyllis on such occasions, and display super¬ 
normal interest in the subject of her, no matter 
how he strove to make it casual. 

Quivering within, Pauline made her way to 
Phyllis. She entered almost in the manner of 
a prisoner called to face a jury ready with its 
verdict. Her small wraith-like body gave 
the impression of a thrush ever poised for in¬ 
stant flight,—her dark, all-seeing eyes express¬ 
ing the intense awareness of her mind. She 
might figuratively be said to have tip-toed into 
the room. 

6 ‘ You ’re a darling to come,” said Phyllis 
with a heartiness which rang altogether fresh 
and new in Pauline’s ears, for Phyllis had al¬ 
ways been languid and patronizing before. It 


78 


Two Women 


carried to her ominous confirmation of her fears; 
so that while Phyllis hugged Pauline’s light 
frame against her ample body and implanted an 
equally ample kiss, Pauline was plunging into 
unfathomable pits of incipient hell. The very 
contact of her angular self against Phyllis’ 
graceful curves carried its demoniac suggestive¬ 
ness. 

But as soon as Phyllis turned on the light in 
the dim room, Pauline sensed a contradictory 
note. Phyllis was obviously not the radiantly be¬ 
trothed one that she had dreaded; Phyllis was 
carrying an air of distinct sombreness. The elec¬ 
tric snap and poise, the cocksureness, the con¬ 
fidence of superiority—in a word the uncon¬ 
scious snobbery which had always lent a certain 
queenliness to her, was strangely gone. In their 
place was an almost pathetic seeking of warmth 
and friendliness. These impressions merely 
grew stronger and more certain during the eve¬ 
ning, until Pauline was able to fling off entirely 
her load of dread of an engagement announce¬ 
ment. 

4 ‘This is the third time I’ve asked you what 
you’re doing,” said Phyllis suddenly. 

“Then I can assume it isn’t just politeness,” 
Pauline archly replied—her mind reacting nor¬ 
mally for the first time, now that the boulder 
of fright was off her heart. 

“It truly isn’t insisted Phyllis, so very ear- 


Two Women 


79 


nestly, that Pauline’s eyes widened with cur¬ 
iosity. “I’ve got time now to think about what 
others are doing.” There was a small but un¬ 
mistakable quaver in her voice. “You know of 
course, I’m not on the Arcadian. Fired!” 

To Pauline this was an incident only. She 
had had more than a dozen jobs in less than 
half a dozen years, and a green or pink envelope 
was entirely familiar, and not nearly so much 
to be fretted over as the loss of five or six 
week’s salary, because you were goodhearted 
enough to be taken in by evasions, delays and 
promises of your daily wage; something a min¬ 
or editorial person encounters only too fre¬ 
quently. 

“I wish I had a ten-spot for every editorial 
job I’ve lost! or ten cents on the dollar for back 
salary I never got!” lightly laughed Pauline, 
sensing Phyllis’ need for fellowship in misery. 

“Really?” Phyllis was somewhat aghast. 

“Child, I have been fired with honeyed words 
(offered in lieu of salary owing); fired with a 
quarrel, trumped up to make a reason; fired by 
a receiver and a sheriff; fired by the editor’s 
wife, and fired by my own decision, not liking 
all the duties I had not been told of by the 
slithy editor on being hired. I’ve even gone in 
for secretarying in business because I got dis¬ 
gusted with the uncertainties of editorial berths. 
You’ll get callous to it, like me. The editorial 


80 


Two Women 


field these recent years has been a battlefield. ’’ 

“You’re a dear to tell me about it. I’m—I’m 
really very unhappy; worse, I’m scared. I don’t 
know myself, and I’m terribly restless. You’ve 
always seemed so brave and competent and such 
a wise 1 ■— — •—” 

“Say it— 4 little thing’!” smiled Pauline. 

“All right—such a wise, sympathetic little 
thing, that I found myself wishing for a talk 
with you.” 

“And I’ve always felt that you were such a 
self-sufficient person!” 

“I’m beginning to see that I was—and 
worse,” replied Phyllis, a little ruefully. “I 
first got a glimpse of myself when Gregory 
Eaton analyzed me very cold-bloodedly one 
night.” 

“What did he say? That man shakes a very 
knowing head.” 

Phyllis repeated his words on that night of 
his visit; rather completely and accurately, too, 
for his words had never altogether left the back¬ 
ground of her consciousness. 

“And a week or two ago I saw Gregory again 
and told him it was up to him to let me take a 
whack at him because I hadn’t been able to 
answer him that night, I was so taken aback. 
I wanted him to help me clear up my mind 
further, because I know perfectly well that I’m 
deficient in sensing other people’s reactions. ‘If 


Two Women 


81 


it’s true that intelligent men seldom marry 
equally intelligent women/ I asked him, ‘and for 
reasons which are sound, wouldn’t the same 
theory hold of intelligent women 1 Wouldn’t 
they be happier if they also married men of or¬ 
dinary human qualities and not expect equal or 
greater intelligence?’ ” 

“Good point!” laughed Pauline. 

“ ‘Bless your heart, girl,” ’ Gregory replied, 
“ ‘that’s precisely what happens. I know a very 
talented actress who was married first to a 
well-known actor, as fine as she was, and they 
were divorced in a year. (Remember Leonard 
Merrick’s story of the strong man’s jealousy of 
his wife, Aphrodite—of her greater applause, 
in vaudeville?) Then this actress married a man 
who travels dutifully with her, swells with pride 
at her triumphs, comforts her when she doesn’t 
get good reviews, looks after her health and is 
the only one who has enough influence with her 
to regulate her habits and diet so that she keeps 
her figure! They quarrelled one day, and that 
night she ate two pounds of fudge, reckless of 
her figure because she didn’t care what became 
of her, so much she loved him! She throws her 
clothes about the room as soon as he enters and 
he never says a word, but dutifully picks them 
up. In general from her point of view he is a 
perfectly ideal husband! Of course,’ Gregory 
said, ‘this is an extreme illustration; but the 


82 


Two Women 


point no doubt holds good; we naturally look in 
marriage for what is pleasing to us. 

“Am I to take it then, that you are debating 
the marriage idea?” Something more than sym¬ 
pathy for Phyllis prompted this remark, and it 
came out a little sharply. 

“Yes, I suppose so,” Phyllis replied hesitant¬ 
ly. Then more animatedly: “You see, Pauline, 
I ? ve looked at myself squarely and I don’t be¬ 
lieve I have any real editorial or literary ability. 
I’ve been fooling myself. The Arcadian was 
really Arcadia for me—it wasn’t real; it gave 
me a false sense of my worth. Col. Maynard 
and his money, and not my work, gave it a 
standing. ’ ’ 

“Not just -” 

“Oh, yes,” insisted Phyllis, with some feel¬ 
ing. “I’ve had time to think since my work has 
suddenly stopped, and I’ve had nothing to do. I 
can’t tell you how frightfully I miss my work.” 
Phyllis’ lip quivered. 

“But haven’t you been trying to locate your¬ 
self again?” 

“Yes. I have been over to four or five of 
the big publishing groups. But they have either 
been cutting down their own staffs, or they 
can’t see where I’d fit in. You see, I’m begin¬ 
ning to learn that, judged by big publishing 
house standards, I’m not really much, after all, 
as an editor.” 


Two Women 


83 


‘ 4 Nonsense/ ’ 

“It’s true. I’ve very little experience with fic¬ 
tion; that shuts me out of the whole field. Then 
it seems that there’s no room on the technical 
side; they have men who are sharks at make-up 
and the mechanical details, so that my little ex¬ 
perience making up the Arcadian is simply 
nothing . Even if I were offered the editorship of 
one of these magazines, I’d shrink now because 
I realize that it’s a much more serious job than 
I thought, after listening to Kate Sumner tell 
me confidently her troubles over on the Wom¬ 
an’s Own Magazine, and after hearing Louise 
Orcut Wainwright tell of the fight she has to 
keep her magazine from being edited by the 
owner, his wife and the directors and their 
wives. There doesn’t seem to be a place for me.” 

‘‘Why! I’ve been out of work for months and 
months at a time!” Pauline cheerfully coun¬ 
tered. 

“I could stand that,” replied Phyllis, with a 
persistent melancholy, “but I can’t stand the 
terrible changes in my life. You know I don’t be¬ 
lieve I have many real friends. This has been 
a revelation to me. All those people who were 
so obsequious while I was on the Arcadian seem 
to have dropped into the briny deep. Scarcely 
one has ever called up to ask what I’m doing. 
Harriet, the telephone girl over at the Arcad¬ 
ian, tells me lots of them called up, and she gave 


84 


Two Women 


them my number, but only one or two have ever 
taken the trouble to reach me. They were in¬ 
terested in the Arcadian and what I could do 
for them, but not in me, really.’ ’ 

“You’re hypersensitive just because this was 
an unexpected blow to you.” 

“No,” replied Phyllis, with a peculiar firm¬ 
ness at her lips, and that characteristic direct 
gaze at her frank eyes, “I can see it all now, 
perfectly clear. I had a background on the Ar¬ 
cadian; I have none now, and I enjoyed a status 
and an entre which are gone now. My so-called 
friends and their attentions are gone . . . Why, 
I’ve even not been re-elected as one of the board 
of the Pica Club!” 

Pauline, during this recital, fixed her deep- 
seeing, velvety black eyes upon Phyllis, with a 
motley of strange sensations. It seemed to her 
in a fleeting sense, as though she were present 
at the humiliation of Queen Louise or Marie 
Antoinette. Phyllis, whose very carriage and 
air had always expressed a certain assured aris¬ 
tocracy of background and being; who had never 
seemed in any sense defeated or deprived of her 
queenly portion;—who, to Pauline had always 
epitomized poise, success, sang froid, was before 
her plaintive, demoted, crushed, like a rose in a 
truckman’s rough hand; destroyed and spiritual¬ 
ly tearful. It was unreal. A demon far down in 
Pauline’s unconsciousness gloated—but only for a 


Two Women 


85 


second, for Pauline had in rare degree the pow¬ 
er of sympathy, which could easily triumph over 
hate and selfishness; indeed this was apparent¬ 
ly Pauline’s leaden drag to her own progress, 
for she was always giving much of her own time 
to someone who engaged these sympathies. Her 
warm heart seemed in inverse ratio to her pal¬ 
lid and bony self. 

“Phyllis Batterman!” exclaimed Pauline, ris¬ 
ing with a motherly determination, seating her¬ 
self on the edge of Phyllis’ chair and placing 
a warm arm around her, “you’re morbid; you 
have never had some of the tough knocks some 
of the rest of us have had, and it’s getting you. 
You’re coming over with me to see Mr. Beards¬ 
ley—I have a hunch that he’s thinking of an as¬ 
sociate editor.” 

“For Woman’s Mirror?” asked Phyllis look¬ 
ing up with unquestionably a certain amount of 
disdain in her voice. 

“Yes, for Woman’s Mirror,” repeated Pau¬ 
line, and almost she drew her arm away as she 
said it, for she felt again that aura of coldness 
and arrogance which had always surrounded 
Phyllis. There had been no returning pressure 
to Pauline’s warm hug, and no melting of those 
gray-blue eyes in response to her own. And dis¬ 
dain from a discouraged woman out of a job 
for a magazine satisfactory enough for Pauline 
to work on! Inwardly Pauline felt some repul- 


86 


Two Women 


sion and contempt for a woman who conld send 
for yon, confess her deep discouragement, and 
then neither return a profferment of sympathe¬ 
tic warmth, or appreciate the best you had to 
offer! A strange Phyllis! Was it any wonder 
that few people were her intimates? 

But the very strangeness, even the mystery of 
a nature so unresponsive in so beautiful a body 
which raised in the beholder mirages of spiritual 
and mental perfection, kept Pauline from yield¬ 
ing to the impulse to withdraw her arm and 
close the interview. The very ease with which 
Pauline might have hated Phyllis, held her with 
an instinctive realization that we hate, chiefly 
that which we do not understand, and that to 
learn to understand might prove interesting. 

“I suppose you never read the sheet,” 
laughed Pauline, a little self-consciously. “It 
really isn’t so bad. I never concern myself with 
the fashion pages; neither, probably, would you. 
I’m now the fiction editor there, you know. We 
have improved the grade of material a great 
deal in the last year, simply because the hard 
times have forced the management to see the 
need of competing by means of better articles 
and fiction.” 

“I’ll go,” replied Phyllis, simply; “tomorrow 
if you like. Thank you very much. And now I 
must get you some tea!” 

Watching Phyllis daintily pour tea in her pre- 


Two Women 


87 


cise way, graceful in an unconscious and unlet¬ 
tered artistry of line, took Pauline’s mind back 
to the personal element; and she instantly re¬ 
membered Phyllis’ confession of harboring the 
matrimonial idea. 

“We got switched away from the subject of 
Gregory Eaton’s analysis of you, and your 
thought of marriage,” said Pauline, her dark 
eyes burning intently, as she toyed with her tea. 

“I’ve never before thought much about mar¬ 
riage,” replied Phyllis, again with that unaf¬ 
fected directness and openness which was so at¬ 
tractive in her. “But I’m going through a 
change of mind. I believe much of this modernism 
women prate about is very surface-y. We’re wo¬ 
men after all, and aren’t built as hard as men. We 
need the security of a home and a husband.” 

“With or without love, I suppose.” Pauline 
could not help the escape of a little cynicism. 

Phyllis went on unperturbed. “I don’t know 
anything about love, and I suspect few of us 
do. I’ve never yet felt any, and I suppose the 
only thing to do is to use your intelligence, and 
marry the best man you know when marry¬ 
ing time comes. I interwiewed W. L. George 
once, and he said: 4 Marry with your intelligence, 
not with your heart, and your heart will fal¬ 
low.’ ” 

“And you . . . you think your marrying time 
is here?” Pauline was quivering inwardly again 


88 


Two Women 


with a dread that was almost impossible to mas¬ 
ter. 

“I do. I’m twenty-seven—yon know the sex’s 
dread of the thirty mile-post. I’m not flirty or 
a flapper or a finale-hopper or a tea fighter. I 
don’t—” 

“But you’re so beautiful,” put in Pauline, 
simply. 

Phyllis sniffed ruefully. 4 ‘Not very, and what 
good is it? It brings men around you—the 
wrong men—and for what? ‘The skin they love 
to touch’; pretty adornment for their house and 
advertisement of their own worth. But as soon 
as you show any individuality or intelligence 
they’re scared. Even Gregory Eaton admitted 
it. If I were a milkmaid or a longshoreman’s 
daughter, I’d go fine. As an editress, I’m a 
duckling and I’m just as angular as the men; I 
want a brainy man, but I’m not really a so- 
called brainy woman ...” Phyllis sat down to 
her tea, and munching a rice cake she announced 
calmly. “No—I’ve pretty well decided. I’m 
going to do the picking; I’ve a fair intelligence, 
what else would it be for? Men seem to be 
boobs at picking women; they confess it. I’m 
going to do it, and I’m going to pick a man 
neither for brains or money, but for personable¬ 
ness and liveableness.” 

“Oh—h!” 

“And why not? Shaw says we women do the 


Two Women 


89 


picking now but won’t admit it. It’s as ancient 
as the race. Have you read that very fascinat¬ 
ing and apparently true diary of life in the 
South Seas—‘Van Zaachen’s Happy Days’? It’s 
the definite privilege of woman in those islands 
to pick her mate. The men line up and the lady 
picks! We’re so much more hypocritical—I hate 
pretense and the subtleties women are supposed 
to use. Gregory calls them woman’s ‘bag of 
tricks ’. ’ ’ 

Pauline braced herself breathlessly for a ques¬ 
tion. “Have you—found the man?” Time and 
eternity stopped for her while she awaited the 
answer. 

Phyllis demurely adjusted her hair and 
brushed a crumb off her skirt. “No,” she re¬ 
plied casually. “I don’t know one man in the 
universe I’d marry.” 

“And yet you’re going to marry someone 
soon?” Phyllis relieved her tension with a peal 
of laughter which rang like clashing cymbals. 
She felt a vast relief but an unaccountable 
foreboding. 

“I suppose I’m foolish to talk this way,” re¬ 
plied Phillis a little diffident; “but somehow 
since Gregory talked to me I don’t feel so re¬ 
ticent about such matters. I feel a little—well, 
militant is the word. As if, I wouldn’t get any¬ 
where unless I took the warpath myself and 
struck out.” 


90 


Two Women 


“What are yon going to do?” Pauline was 
genuinely interested. It seemed like an adven¬ 
ture. The warpath for a husband! 

With gestures wholly feminine, as she cleared 
the tea things; so feminine that they seemed in 
absurd discord with her words, Phyllis replied: 
“Will you help me? I’m going to deliberately 
meet as many men as I can and I’m going to 
seize the man whom I think will make a good 
husband. ’ ’ 

“And your specifications?” 

“I’m going to find a man with no sharp edges, 
good to look at, and kindly, steady and true. I 
don’t want one overloaded with brains,—I’m 
going to take a leaf out of Gregory’s book: 
what’s sauce for the gander is sauce for the 
goose. I’ve done a lot of thinking since that 
man talked to me. If men of brains want soft 
kittens to play with, why should a woman of in¬ 
telligence want such so-called intelligent men?” 

“You prefer a common garden variety of 
business man?” smilingly interpolated Pauline. 

“No!” retorted Phyllis; “I want a man who’ll 
spend a lot of time with me; who’ll be ever so 
comfortable and homey to live with. I don’t 
want money, anymore than a live man does, 
from the woman he marries. As for this matter 
of brains, I want one with enough not to irritate 
me, but not so much that he’ll neglect me. 
I want the ministering kind of a husband who puts 


Two Women 


91 


you ahead of everything else. That’s what men 
want—-why shouldn’t I?” 

“This is lots of fun!” cried Pauline delight¬ 
edly—her delight growing as the recipe more 
and more certainly ruled Mark out of the reck¬ 
oning. 

“And of course I’m going to pull my share 
of the load—I’m going to work continued 
Phyllis, casually. 

“You are'l Good for you!” 

“I should say so! I’ve had a frightful lesson 
these six weeks. I’m spoiled for old-time home 
life; and I don’t think I’m the grande passione 
kind either, who ‘lives on love’;” I must have 
my work. The man I marry will agree to this 
beforehand or it’s all off. That’s why I want 
a man who’ll bend to my life a good deal, in¬ 
stead of these men you constantly meet—I’m 
sick of them—who like you to be modern enough 
to smoke cigarettes, bob your hair and discuss 
sex with them, but who want you to be a reg¬ 
ular traditional wife when they marry you, and 
they want to be the czar of a woman’s fate, in 
spite of their show of liberality.” 

“Yes, the Times magazine section had a flap¬ 
per’s wail about that the other Sunday,” re¬ 
marked Pauline. “She says the men think it’s 
cute in the women to be flapperish and daring; 
but 0, boy! what a racket when they get en¬ 
gaged and are told the flapper’s ambition is to 


92 


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go to work, or to keep on working, and to go out 
alone and all the rest!” 

“You see then,” gayly answered Phyllis, from 
the small pantry, as she waved a utensil aloft, 
“why I’m going on this man-hunt, instead of 
waiting to he hunted? If there’s going to be 
any knocking down and dragging off to a cave, 
why not give me a chance at it? . . . Avaunt 
there, ye husband!” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Herbert McAvoy was swinging across City Hall 
Park one afternoon a month or two later, when 
he suddenly noticed two figures ahead of him. 
They were laughing childishly together and tread¬ 
ing as if they had no particular objective. 

“Why, Phyllis!” exclaimed McAvoy, as he 
strode up to them breezily. “You scamp, we 
haven’t seen you at the house for pot luck for 
weeks and weeks—and you haven’t lunched with 
me for ages. Introduce me to this guy—I’ll 
bet he’s responsible.” 

A peal of laughter, rather louder than common 
for Phyllis, greeted his sally. 

“Meet my . . . my ...” (laughter interven¬ 
ing) “I’ll get it out in a minute —my husband, 
Mr. McAvoy.” 

McAvoy looked as if it were a jest. 

“I mean it—my husband!” cried Phyllis, with 
an air of excitement which eliminated jest. 

McAvoy’s lips formed for a whistle, which he 
let out slowly, taking in the pair with a comical 
expression. “By jiminy!— shake! Congratula¬ 
tions! What the devil is his name, Phyllis?” 

93 


94 


Two Women 


“Owen—James T. Owen,” replied the young 
man with a flashing smile and a faultless social 
demeanor, which McAvoy, with reportorial eyes, 
took in with a first quick measuring survey. 

“You’ve caught a Tartar queen,” was Mc¬ 
Avoy’s comment, his hand still lingering in 
Owen’s, and his eyes still taking him in. 
“When—” and then the thing just dawned on 
him. “Why, I’ll be blowed! You fellows have 
just had the knot tied, eh, what?” he exclaimed, 
glancing at the Municipal Building. “Well, this 
is luck! Just in time to throw the rice and tie 
the cowbells on! Come along! I’m going to 
grab a taxi and take you up to Hannah for a 
wedding br—, no, what time is it?—a wedding 
dinner, supper, hand-me-out or something!” 

“Couldn’t possibly, old top,” cut in Owen 
with an expression of velvet blandness which nev¬ 
er afterward left McAvoy’s impression of him. 

“Nope,” chirped, Phyllis, “we’re off! Don’t 
ask where. It’s not Washington and it’s not 
Bermuda! ” 

“I suppose it’s Niagara Falls ? then?” 

“Ha! Ha! You’ll hear from us in a couple 
of weeks!” 

“Secret?” 

“Let the whole world know!” proclaimed 
Phyllis jocosely as they started to move off. 

“Here! wait a moment! You don’t get off 
that easy! I claim a kiss from the bride!” And 


Two Women 


95 


before much could be done about it he had stolen 
it. He waved after them as they departed, arm 
in arm. 

“I have a hunch; I have a hunch,’’ hummed 
McAvoy, as he walked away; “I have a hunch 
that it’s a hasty pudding marriage and that 
she’ll rue the day. But what cynic doesn’t have 
that hunch when he sees a pair of turtle doves 
fresh from the tie-up? And who the devil can 
tell about them, anyhow? . . . But Phyllis! she’s 
a six-year-old walking onto a battlefield without 
a side arm or a gas mask. God! I hope he’s a 
man clear down to his hob nails! . . . Phyllis a 
bride tonight! . . . Well, the fruit must some¬ 
time go to the press, ripe or unripe, I suppose! 
. . . What a scream life is! I’ll call up Pauline 
at once! Poor child; she’s clear now. . . Wonder 
if Mark knows? Better not tell him yet. . . . 
Damn shame. . . Mark’s a man; I don’t believe 
that Owen guy is. . . ” 

“That you, Pauline?” .... 

“Fine, thanks. . . Hold your breath now. . . 
Phyllis was married this afternoon. ...” 

“Married,” I said. . . 

“Joshing? Saw them with my own eyes; 
kissed the bride and all!”. . . . 

“No, I wouldn’t fool with you about it. It’s 
true. . . . Hello, are you on the wire? Come 
back to life and ...” 

“Who? A nifty chap named Owen. ...” 



96 


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“Owen—O-w-e-n- . , . Never knew him. . . . 
Can’t tell yon. ...” 

“I don’t know whether he does or not. Doubt 
it. . . .” 

“You want me to tell him? . . .” 

“Oh, you couldn’t kill Mark that easy! He’ll 
make a quick comeback—watch him! ... I’ll 
call him up right away. 

“How do I feel? That’s right, twit me now. 
But maybe I’ll laugh last. She brushed me 
with her wings of poesy, all right, but they were 
unfeathered fledgling wings and they scratched. 
She’ll be more interesting to me by a jugful 
five years from today than now. ...” 

“It’s my business to be a cynic. . . But how 
do you feel?” 

“I’ll take the question back. . .” 

“All right—hang up, and I’ll ring Mark.” 

“Mark—this is Bert McAvoy. . .” 

“Fine, thanks. . . Heard the news?” . . . 

“Oh, hell, I don’t care whether they flivver 
conferences five times a day in Europe. I’m 
talking of bigger news. Phyllis got married. . .” 

“Don’t crack the diaphram, old man. You 
got me the first time. Married is right. ...” 

“See here, if you get fresh I’ll hang up. I 
don’t peddle phony news even if I work on a 
yellow journal. Truth is always more exciting 
than planted news. ...” 

“Well, then don’t attack my veracity and 


Two Women 


97 


start anything! All I know is that I met her 
in City Hall Park half an hour ago, in a sus¬ 
picions attitude with a man named Owen, James 
T. Owen, stranger to me—and they ’fessed up. 
They’re off for two weeks. ...” 

“Slow up there, now, old man! I’m not a 
cub reporter, taken in by practical jokes, and 
you know darn well Phyllis Batterman can’t 
crack many ordinary jokes, let alone practical 
ones about getting married. So stow your line 
of chatter about me being a gull ...” 

“I told you I don’t know him from a waiter. 
Smooth, dark fellow with good teeth—that’s 
about all I know about the lucky dog. . .” 

“Not a hint to anybody, apparently, Mark. 
Bolt from the sunny sky. I’m broken-hearted, 
like the rest of you guys . . . .” 

“Hello, hello! - 

“Cut off, eh?. . . All right; guess Mark passed 
out just about then and hung up. Lucky it’s 
the end of the day, so he can go home and bite 
the dust unobserved. He’ll get over it—damn 
soon, I hope, and pick up that pearl, Pauline, 
lying right in his path. . . Queer mess . . . Now 
I’ll ring up Hannah and the news will be stale 
in an hour! . . . And she told me she couldn’t 
flirt! That newcomer on the scene must have 
been a typhoon at love-making—or else she’s 
borrowed a bag of tricks somewhere!” 

That evening Pauline sat stiff and wide-eyed 


98 


Two Women 


in her rooms, jumping absurdly at a sound, as 
if some ridiculous part of herself hoped the 
telephone would ring. She couldn’t put Mark 
out of her mind a moment. It was torture to 
realize that he was in agony, just five blocks 
away, where he lived; that probably, yes. cer¬ 
tainly no thought of her crossing his brain. She 
wanted dreadfully to go to him, but how rid¬ 
iculous! Pauline’s slender frame seemed fur¬ 
ther to shrink; her expressive eyes further to 
burn with the light of her incandescent mind; 
her colorless skin further to banish its blood. 
She sat in a dressing gown far into the night; 
picking up a book occasionally, but though the 
words spelled themselves out before her eyes, 
they carried no message to her brain, which 
was the inquisitioned slave of her emotions. She 
fell asleep on her divan, waking up in some 
small hour of the morning, strangely confused 
and a dull but certain pain still gripping her. 

Mark’s attitude to Pauline had never been 
anything but forgetful friendliness. He en¬ 
joyed her company, despite his obvious and 
universally known absorption in Phyllis, but it 
was a casual enjoyment and Pauline had always 
shown far too much instinctive delicacy of per¬ 
ception to inflict upon his pre-occupied heart 
the paradox of another woman’s devotion, un¬ 
wanted. Mark, never very obtuse in his ex¬ 
pression of himself, was always easily “read” 
by Pauline and she made it her business to be 


Two Women 


99 


with him only when it was very obvious that 
he wanted her, and to keep away from him when 
he was too full of the image of Phyllis to stand 
any other woman’s companionship. In this way, 
Mark came to depend more than he knew upon 
Pauline to fill up the many valleys of his lone¬ 
someness. During the last two months she had 
seen more than ordinarily much of him, for he 
had seen little of Phyllis, and so, in correspond¬ 
ing ratio, he saw more of her. He always found 
her quick intelligence a pleasure to his brain 
and her lambent humor a relief to his sur¬ 
charged feelings. She was a spirit; as a woman 
she did not exist for him. His sex imagery 
was all wrapped about the queenly Phyllis, every 
line and curve and motion of whom struck 
across his heartstrings like firm, deft fingers 
on a harp. The magic she conjured up was a 
shining vision of Paradise to a dusty pilgrim 
in a wearisomely commonplace world, of whom 
all other women but Phyllis were but an equally 
dusty part. She was of another world than 
his, of other origins and atmospheres, and he 
never ceased gasping at the wonder and the 
strangeness she presented to his senses; also 
the exasperation which her thoughts and actions 
produced upon his sense of logic and construc¬ 
tive growth. She was Pandora and paradox 
at one and the same moment. 

Eebounding—often violently—from his ob- 


100 


Two Women 


sessed vision of Phyllis, he landed comfortably, 
always, upon the mellow and resilient compan¬ 
ionship of Pauline. It was like the hunter who 
exhausts himself stalking strange, baffling quar¬ 
ry and comes back to his friendly, ministering 
campfire. 

That Mark would come to Pauline hard upon 
the news of Phyllis ’ marriage was a certainty 
which Pauline’s brain could readily grasp, but 
which set her emotions on edge. When one 
evening a week later he called, quite unan¬ 
nounced, Pauline was, however, altogether pre¬ 
pared for the ordeal. He swung her hand vig¬ 
orously. “I had to come and take it out on 
you,” he said, the cloud still on his face. “You 
knew I was in love with Phyllis, of course— 
it’s been everybody’s secret,”—cynically. 

Mark had no idea that Pauline loved him; 
possibly if he had he would have avoided her 
lest she presume to want more of him now that 
Phyllis was married. That he didn’t know she 
loved him was a tribute more to Pauline’s ex¬ 
quisite genius for friendship and understanding 
than to Mark’s preoccupation with Phyllis. She 
had that rare gift among women of divining that 
man can never be intrinsically interested in 
tears and surrender; that he will go fifty miles 
for game trout, but not fifty feet for flounder. 
She had, in addition, the self-mastery—at least 
while in his company—to put her wisdom into 


Two Women 


101 


practice; a self-mastery which was won by years 
of self-support, family burden-bearing and brave 
struggle with ambition, out among many kinds 
of men and women. It marked her off, as 
though she was of another race, from Phyllis, 
green and untried. 

“Poor fellow/’ chirped Pauline, with just the 
right lightness of sympathy; her voice telling 
nothing whatever of the leaden soul within her. 
“Come over in the corner—you’ve never 
stretched out, have you, on my oriental cor¬ 
ner, just as freely as if you had on a smoking 
jacket and were in your own room? And I’ll 
even let you throw off your coat and smoke, 
of course—while I make you some iced cocoa \” 
“Iced cocoa!” repeated Mark, a warmness 
crackling about his heart, such as he had not 
known for a long time. “How did you know 
that of all drinks, temperate or intemperate, 
that was my chummiest choice V 9 
“Because, goose, you’ve ordered it frequent¬ 
ly. ” The reply was matter-of-fact. 

Mark was silent; but it did not require magic 
to read his thoughts. Phyllis never remem¬ 
bered anything of his tastes, nor, if remem¬ 
bering, made use of the knowledge. It had 
always been others who studied her tastes, nev¬ 
er she who studied anyone else’s! 

Stirring the cocoa on the gas plate in her kit¬ 
chenette alcove, Pauline ruminated on these 


102 


Two Women 


facts. Her lips moved voicelessly as she com¬ 
mented to herself: “She had many lovers, but 
I have at least, many friends as a net result of 
the differences between us ... But I really 
shouldn’t have made his old cocoa for him, even 
if I did know he liked it, because maybe he’s 
sly enough to think I deliberately did it to show 
a contrast with Phyllis ... But, no of course 
not! ... he doesn’t suspect that I love his dear, 
dull eyes! If he did, he’d run away, poor dar¬ 
ling! And I wouldn’t blame him!” 

With which Pauline, in a comfortable, even 
saucy mood, brought a trayful of the cocoa, 
and Mark followed it with his eyes as it ap¬ 
proached him—while Pauline smiled sardonically 
out of her scintillating eyes. 

“The way to a man’s heart, even to mend 
it when it’s broken, is via f-double-o d,” 
mocked Pauline. 

Mark, true to form, took the joke slowly; like¬ 
wise a cool goblet of cocoa. Then, turning his 
serious grey eyes upon Pauline, with his charac¬ 
teristic fixity of gaze, he exploded after a mo¬ 
ment. 

“Civilization’s a joke, Pauline. You’re wrong; 
my heart isn’t broken at all; that’s poet stuff. 
I’m fighting mad. I wish to God I had been 
born in the Neanderthal age of man!” 

Pauline’s eyes danced. She wanted to hug 
him, so happy she was; for he was taking it as 


Two Women 


103 


she had dimly conjured him taking it; some way 
that was manly, that wasn’t lying down, anyway. 

44 What in the world do you mean?” 

“Mean?” Mark straightened up, and his 
voice rose, 4 ‘I’m talking rot perhaps, but I can 
tell you exactly how I feel, anyway. What kind 
of a marriage is it that she’s picked out for 
herself? A soporific, tidy sort of thing that 
has no pep in it; a lazy, cushiony kind of mar¬ 
riage that’s the worst possible tiling for her!” 

“What do you know about it?” 

“Ask McAvoy; he sized them up and he 
knows men when he meets them,” continued 
Mark, almost in an oratorical mood. “This 
fellow is a nice, sweet, well-behaved puppy, 
that’s all, I’m sure. You can see through it, 
can’t you? She picked him, I’ll bet; she, who 
knows as much about values in men and affairs 
as a blind orphan. He can’t be more than I 
say he is, because she isn’t capable of knowing 
other values—yet. She had some idea of mar¬ 
rying brains but she was scared out of it. 

If this were a Neanderthal age and not a mol¬ 
lycoddled woman’s age she’d have married me 
because I’d have captured her, and a damn good 
marriage it’d have been.” 

In spite of the injury to her inner feelings 
Pauline laughed a high silver laugh. 

“You’re pretty well convinced, aren’t you? 
You poor man! You could say, like Cervantes, 



104 


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couldn’t you, that you had 'courted a statue, 
hunted the wind and cried aloud to the desert!’ ” 

“Oh, I know you all think I’m not her kind 
and that we’d never have gotten along; but 
that’s why I’m mad: you’re all wrong. She 
needs me more than any man she’s ever known. 
And don’t get the idea that I’m a disappointed 
egotist. If she’d married a man who could 
have made something of her; a man who would 
mean something in her development; even a man 
of intelligence who thoroughly understood her— 
I wouldn’t have felt upset. It’s the knowledge 
that she’s married wrong that galls .’ 9 

"Don’t we always think other people marry 
wrong?” gently inquired Pauline. "W]ho dares 
decide whom anyone shall marry?” 

‘ ‘ The man who has thought about it; has selec¬ 
ted the woman he wants; that’s who,” incisively 
snapped Mark. "There’s a lot of rot talked 
about marriage and woman’s freedom of choice. 
Theoretically fine, but practically, childish. Men 
know more about life and affairs; women are 
still in a half-grownup stage. Marriage by cap¬ 
ture was good for the race. When it comes 
to picking husbands, women run true to form; 
they pick the lady-pleasers, the men whose social 
position, wealth, manners or some other acces¬ 
sory—his uniform, perhaps—looks glittering to 
them. They look for comfort; they don’t want— 
so they think—any man who’ll ask them to work 


Two Women 


105 


and grow together. They want at once to be 
carried on a rickshaw, lolling on the cushions, 
with attendants brushing off the flies!” 

“What sweeping generalizations!” warned 
Pauline. 

“You’re right! I am sweeping! But I can’t 
stop to qualify and hedge right now. Discount 
25 or 50 percent if you like, and still I’m right 
by plenty of margin 1” 

“Well, why didn’t you capture Phyllis, Mr. 
Mark Neanderthal?” 

“Because modern feministic notions, woman’s 
freedom and all that sort of bunk has made 
it impossible for any man to capture a woman. 
You can’t capture a free spirit; in Victorian 
days a woman was a vassal, (under other polite 
names). We clubbed her with her economic ne¬ 
cessity among other things instead of a stick 
of hickory. Oh, I’m no old dope of a reaction¬ 
ary, as you know. I’m for the new feminism; 
but, Pauline, here’s my point:- (I’ll get off my 
perch and stop ranting) marriage is still regar¬ 
ded as something to enter into for permanence, 
even by the feminist. Yet here goes Phyllis, who 
admits hardly understanding her own aims and 
desires, who has precious little knowledge of 
life, less of men, and I’m convinced, none of 
sex—and she waltzes lightly into a marriage 
with a man she’s known, I’m sure, but a few 
months.” 


106 


Two Women 


“Many happy marriages have come from 
quick love matches.” 

“Granted. But is it love in her case*?” 
snapped Mark, tensely. “I believe you’d know 
in a month about a man because you’ve what 
Pope called ‘a seeing eye’. You know people 
and values. You have philosophy. But Phyllis 
is different. I can discuss her with you, can’t 
I, because you’re a real friend of hers.” 

Pauline nodded gravely; wavering fascinat¬ 
edly at his envelopment in his passion. It was 
so uniquely good—even if it hurt—to see a man 
so analytically interested in a woman’s person¬ 
ality and career. 

“Well, you know Phyllis,” continued Mark, 
lines on his forehead showing his concentration 
on the subject, “She is much more like me than 
you’d imagine. She has no natural genius. 
You’re just naturally acute, studious, sensitive, 
imaginative and spiritual. But I’m not, nor is 
Phyllis; we’ve got to plod and fight and strain 
over it. She’s from an educated family and has 
many cultural advantages. They’ve given her 
an outer layer of seeming ability; I’m just the 
crude material, unpolished. But neither she nor 
I will ever amount to anything unless we work 
and drive ourselves. She scarcely yet realizes 
it; she’s just awakened to the fact that she’s 
not the infant phenomenon which her adoring 
parents and schoolmates thought she was. But— 


Two Women 


107 


just like a woman—she gets panicky as soon as 
she discovers it, and turns, like any weak sister, 
to marriage—like my grandfather ignorantly 
turned to a patent medicine if he had a little 
ache. You really see what I mean!” 

Pauline nodded gravely again. Mark was 
silent a moment, and Pauline could see perspira¬ 
tion gather on his face. 

“It’s frightfully serious,” he intoned, solemn¬ 
ly, “because she’s not modern enough to change 
things afterward. She’s married to him for¬ 
ever; she’ll never break the trap that holds her.” 

“Goodness me/” exclaimed Pauline, “you take 
my breath with your cock-sureness! Why, Phyl¬ 
lis is on her honeymoon, apparently happily 
married to a man you never saw, and you’re 
quite sure she’s going to be unhappy and want 
a divorce, and—oh!” Pauline stopped, flushed. 
Inner feelings were raging at such an exhibit 
of his tenacious love for another woman. 

Mark hung his head. “I’m ridiculous, I 
know,” he said slowly. He seemed to feel futil¬ 
ity for the first time. He drooped a little. 

“I know how it must seem to you,” murmured 
Pauline. “But I had a talk with her scarcely a 
month before she was married.” 

“You did?” ejaculated Mark eagerly. 

“Yes, and I don’t believe she’s gone into 
marriage as blindly as you think. She didn’t 
sit and wait to be captured—she did a little 


108 


Two Women 


choosing of her own. Isn’t that a worthy ex¬ 
hibition of feministic brains!” 

“But what about love?” exploded Mark. 

“I think she loves this man,” answered Paul¬ 
ine, slowly. “She isn’t the kind to marry for 
cheap reasons. She isn’t, on her own ad¬ 

mission, given to the ‘grande passione’ stuff. 
She’s—” 

“That’s just it,” broke in Mark, energetically, 
“that precisely proves my point—don’t you see? 
She’s gone and married, on the belief that le 
grande passione was not for her, whereas of 
course it is, when she matures enough to be able 
to experience it. But when she does mature, 
she’ll find she’s locked herself up, forever.” 

“But, Mark, she may never ‘mature,’ as you 
say. Isn’t it possible that some women are 
made that way?” 

“No doubt. But not Phyllis.” 

“How thoroughly you must know her!” 
Pauline’s tone was a compound of envy and gay 
satire. 

Mark winced. 

“And there’s always divorce!” Pauline was 
stressing the satire, to make her personal feeling 
less evident. 

“Divorce!” Mark sneered. “There’s more 
loose talk in the name of divorce than any other 
word, not excepting marriage. Why, only a 
small percentage of people,—the hot-tempered, 



Two Women 


109 


designing and neurotically super sensitive ones 
get divorces. The larger percentage would undo 
their marriages if they could wish it in a twink¬ 
ling and save their faces and their own and 
other’s feeling! Phyllis would never get a di¬ 
vorce—she’s of that nice, tender-minded breed 
that the most of us belong to, who just couldn’t 
and wouldn’t. They stick it out, like the social 
puppets in Edith Wharton’s ‘Age of Innocence’. 
As Saint Beuve said of Moliere, they practise 
the good more than they believe in it.” 

“Why, Mark Stockman!” exclaimed Pauline, 
in surprise. “If you’re such a bear on marriage, 
why on earth do you lament so much that Phyl¬ 
lis wouldn’t marry you?” 

“Because,” replied Mark, straightening up 
and looking at Pauline with that eerie fixed 
stare of his which had in it something of the 
burning faith and prepossession of the mystic; 
“because Phyllis and I are different! We’re so 
much in need of each other that our need is 
greater than any human institutions, of marriage 
or divorce!” 

His words rang in the room, and Pauline, 
in some unaccountable way was almost frightened 
into silence. Successive waves of feeling tra¬ 
versed her body. Dim portents of the tangled 
skein of the future seemed to pervade the at¬ 
mosphere. 

The silence deepened as Mark continued his 


110 


Two Women 


immobile gaze; and after what seemed like a 
long time they resumed conversation, but on quite 
commonplace matters. 


CHAPTER IX 


“Oh, no you won't, young man!” chortled a 
perfectly self-possessed and gleeful young wo¬ 
man in a bathing suit, waist deep in the sea 
on the broad white Florida sands at Ormond. 

The young man in question, spare in build, 
mild and genial in habitual manner, flashed an 
amiable smile and approached playfully to car¬ 
ry out a threat to duck her. Hardly had he 
come within arm’s reach when she rushed him, 
and with an affectionately proprietary air seized 
his hair, pulled his head backward, until he lost 
his balance and forgot his purpose to duck her. 
In retaliation he splashed her and for five 
minutes a lively aqueous duel took place, advan¬ 
tage resting alternately on either side. 

“Let’s go out, I’m tired,” suddenly announced 
Phyllis, her laughter ceasing. Seizing first a 
salty kiss from his bride, Owen followed her 
out. 

They lay on the deep, warm, incredibly white 
sand for a long time, eye to eye with the smooth 
glistening ocean, with its azures and sapphires 
and cerulean blues; the long, low musical roll 
111 


112 


Two Women 


of the waves chanting as rythmically as the 
breathing of the honeymoon pair. Owen toyed 
alternately with the sand and with Phyllis’ hands 
but Phyllis was pensive. 

“Energy,” she murmured, in an undertone of 
rumination; “energy that is tireless, unlimited— 
that’s what the sea means to me. To some it 
means color; some people get a mysticism out 
of it—something too beautiful or too terrible for 
human beings. Some people read romance, ad¬ 
venture and excitement out of the sea. But 
it’s always energy to me; it fascinates me just 
as if I were watching the thousands of men 
working at digging the Panama Canal, and hear¬ 
ing a hundred hammers and cranes and shovels. 

The sea is never idle.I love the doing 

of things.” 

“It’s a nice big bathtub for my Phylly,” an¬ 
swered Owen, addressing her caressingly by the 
inevitable nickname he had coined. 

“I often wish,” continued Phyllis, not permit¬ 
ting her mood to be broken, “I could have been 
present to watch the world being shaped— 
watched for instance the making of that huge 
terminal moraine of the glacial period which is 
now Long Island. Great, thunderous strokes of 
energy; seas and bays and islands carved out! . . 
It takes the sea to make me think of such 
things. ’ ’ 

“And now Phylly will soon carve out a cun- 



Two Women 


113 


ning little crow’s nest somewhere with her cuti- 
kins! M-m-m-m!” 

Phyllis made no answer for a long time. 

1 ‘Dear, she said, a little later, “how long have 
we been here?” 

“Two weeks!” replied Owen, Ms boyish face 
lighting suggestively; “and it seems only a 
day!” 

“Dear, isn’t it three weeks this coming Sat¬ 
urday?” 

“Let’s see—yes, it is. Incredible!” 

“Would it—would it disappoint you, dear, if 
I suggested that we won’t stay the full month, 
but go back Saturday?” 

“But why?” Owen was wide-eyed. 

Phyllis’ shoulders moved as if in part reply. 
“Oh, I don’t know—really. I love it here, but 
I feel rather restless. I’ve never loafed like this! 
I want to work]” 

Owen laughed softly and rubbed his head 
against hers. 

“But Phylly darling, you’re such an absurd 
bride! I’ve never heard of a bride who longed 
to cut short her honeymoon to wield the frying 
pan and the skillet.” 

Phyllis looked at him critically. “Nor does 
this bride,” she announced shortly. 

“Of course not!” said Owen, kissing her; 
“we’ll stay here for a full month.” 

“I don’t want to,” repeated Phyllis, a little 


114 


Two Women 


stiffly; 16 1 want to go home and find my work. 
It’s no reflection on onr honeymoon, dear. 
There’s a point when even the choicest confec¬ 
tion tends to become a little cloying, and that's 
the time to let up! And it’s not you that’s 
cloying me a little—it’s the idleness. I’m like a 
good horse champing at the bit after being given 
too easy a time of it! Do yon understand, dear? 
I want to kick my heels and go\” 

“Of course,” smiled Owen in his easy, smooth 
way. “My filly is frisk, like the adorable little 
horsey she is—and such wonderful mane she 
has!” He playfully tossed some of the sunning 
tresses over his head. 

“Then let’s call it settled—and arrange mat¬ 
ters at the hotel, to leave Saturday.” 

“But darling—” he drew her toward him and 
whispered something. 

Phyllis flushed slightly. “I know, dear; but 
1 can’t help it. You’ll just have to be patient 
with me—maybe for a long time.” She looked 
out upon the sea abstractedly, and felt a pe¬ 
culiar sense of having aged vastly since her 
marriage. It was an odd, but yet a definite sen¬ 
sation of having torn the last veils of mysteries 
from the puppet show of life, and sensing the 
blase stretches beyond. Perhaps every bride 
feels it; since woman’s life has immemorially 
been staged with the chief denouement on her 
wedding day. 


Two Women 


115 


To Phyllis the sexual denouement had been 
crude and undramatic—even noxious; and the 
injury to her imagination was considerable. 
She had found herself spent, exasperated, even 
nauseated; and finally unresponsive and petulant, 
yet realizing vaguely that there was more tra¬ 
vail to endure as a matter of duty. Withal 
there was a new and profoundly disturbing fear 
of precipitate consequences; a fear which she 
felt almost as keenly, to her surprise, as any un¬ 
married woman. The very thought of children 
seemed to her preposterous, and premature; 
and their imminent possibilty made Owen some¬ 
times seem like an ogre seeking to destroy her 
youth before its time. The pleasures of the 
intellect, of work, of artistry, seemed every hour 
to emerge from the constellation of impressions 
of her honeymoon as the bright particular 
stars of life, lustrous beyond compare, despite 
the tenderest emotions, of which she felt no lack 
for Owen. Nevertheless if she could be said to 
have developed passion during her honeymoon, 
it was passion to get back to work that would 
satisfy her. 

She looked at Owen, playing in the sand be¬ 
side her. Startlingly detached thoughts went 
through her mind. “My husband .... husband! 
. . . . For life! .... Well, why not? . . . . 
He’s my choice as truly as could be ... I’ll 
never forget how startled and joyous he was 



116 


Two Women 


when I said, “Yes, let’s!”. And he is 


nice.Clean .... polished . . . 

obliging .... If he onl/y won’t fuss around 
me too much.I can’t stand it another 


second, sometimes .I suppose men are 

that way, on their honeymoon at least; can’t 
keep their hands off you .... But I used my 
mind in picking him; there’s real, not muddling 
feminism for you! Some of the cleverest women 
I know have made such fizzles of marriage— 
simply because they used all their brains on 
politics or art, and none on their marriage!” . . . 

Despite her own expectations, Phyllis on their 
return to New York, found the work of establish¬ 
ing a new domicile absorbing. She was highly 
sensitive to surroundings, and before she could 
put her mind upon anything whatsoever, she 
found it necessary to satisfy herself in the three 
room apartment they had found on a side street 
near lower Fifth Avenue, after weary searching. 
It was one of the multitudinous brownstone res¬ 
idences of an age long since outgrown—a ver¬ 
itable deserted village of homes now peopled 
with wholly different human beings from their 
original occupants. Down in the basement of the 
particular home they had found, lived a self- 
sufficient, formidable young woman who had 
used most of the colors of the rainbow in re¬ 
painting the sombre woodwork. She had been 
particularly partial to Chinese red; and for 





Two Women 


117 


purely artistic contrast she sported a gorgeous 
parrot. She was a designer and decorator 
of tea rooms, it came out later; also she 
could swear and considered it a lark to teach 
profanity to the parrot. The first or parlor 
floor was occupied by Mrs. Partridge, a woman 
in that decade of her life between 35 and 45, 
when she sometimes makes a last gesture of 
invitation to romance, and never quite believes 
the gesture unheeded. On the second floor were 
two young men; on the third floor front Miss 
Bonat, a writer, and the third floor rear was 
the quiet, spacious “apartment” which had in¬ 
trigued Phyllis. It looked out upon the remnant 
of an old garden and trees, which were lovely 
if one could manage to forget the dishevelled 
backyards just beyond. The apartment was 
leased very carefully as a “non-housekeeping” 
apartment, for the landlord’s legal protection, 
but a small ice chest, a gas plate and a drain 
were provided in a small “kitchenette” that 
once must have been a closet. The janitor 
on certain occasions would come up, disconnect 
the gas plate and hide it under the bed when 
the inspector came around. 

Nevertheless the quarters were delightfully 
cool in summer and well-heated in winter; and 
there was a real fireplace! A fireplace was 
to Phyllis an absolute necessity; like her piano— 
and for more or less the same reasons; aesthetic 
and decorative. The chill, bare apartments fur- 


118 


Two Women 


ther uptown, with their snow-white tiles to tempt 
women, were positively ugly to Phyllis. She 
hated new things; somehow they offended her 
notion of values; seemed to disturb her sense of 
position and background in life. 

Owen and she had a merry time visiting 
auction rooms and picking up various colonial 
pieces to match a high-boy and a writing 
desk that she had long possessed as an heirloom. 
And they had allowed $250 out of their budget 
for one or two paintings, and had all sorts 
of adventures in finding what they wanted, at 
a price they could pay. They visited several 
artists whose paintings they had admired and 
looked perfectly unperturbed when one of them 
asked $900 and said he was about to send it 
to an art dealer who was going to make the 
price $1,000. They finally bought a delightful 
canvas, painted in the Van Gogh manner, in a 
high key, showing a simple rural scene. It 
gave even greater spaciousness to the rooms 
when hung. But it had cost $200—asking price 
$400! and with the remaining fifty they finally 
persuaded another artist to paint a copy of his 
picture for that sum, since he wanted $150, and 
the canvas was just what they desired to hang 
over the fireplace; an arresting impressionistic 
theme. 

Jimmy—that was her name for him—was all 
that could be desired as a husband during this 
interval. He spent every minute possible as- 


Two Women 


119 


sisting in doing the many little things which 
their combined taste and ingenuity suggested. 
Jimmy, in fact, was as keen about every little de¬ 
tail, from systematic rows of nails in the “kitch¬ 
enette” for utensils, to the precise spot to hang 
a picture, as though he and not she were the 
bride. He was never-failingly comradly in all 
the exciting little adventures of “doping out” 
a new scheme to utilize space advantageously. It 
was he who devised the idea of a long window 
seat in a dhtficult corner with book case space 
at each end; to be built on careful measurement 
by a carpenter, which would also when the seat 
was lifted, be a spacious storage receptacle. 

“You’re the most adorable domestic man I 
ever heard of!” cried Phyllis delightedly, more 
than once, during this nest-building period. 
“I’ve got a good eye for results, but I’m 
frightfully heavy-handed and slow in doing 
things like this. I just never was taught. But 
you’re—well, you’re for all the world like my 
mother, who was one of your born homemakers.” 

“You’ll be like her Phylly, don’t fret, once 
we get this place just right,” answered Jimmy. 

Privately Phyllis was rather uncertain whether 
she wanted to be like her mother in this respect, 
but she did not probe this. 

“How did you know that you have to have 
holes in the bottom of a window flower box?” 
asked Phyllis, admiringly as he was drilling the 


120 


Two Women 


bottoms of the boxes for geraniums to be set out¬ 
side the windows. 

“That,” declaimed Jimmy as his auger-bit 
crashed through, “is the kind of brains the 
universities can’t give you. It’s the kind of 
brains which makes statesmen. Didn’t Lincoln 
split rails I’ll bet Lloyd George can wield a 
handsaw!” 

Phyllis tittered—her capacity to giggle had 
come back to her on the very eve of their 
proposal, and had not deserted her except for 
a few days at the end of their stay in Florida, 
when she had grown restless. She still highly 
respected her giggles. They were audible, tan¬ 
gible proofs to her that she was not off the 
path of young-womanhood; not lost in the Black 
Forest of Intellectuality which had so frightened 
her. 

“Very well, Premier Jimmy,” she tossed back, 
holding aloft a pair of scissors in sceptre fashion 
“as Queen I call my minister to a conference 
on the upholstery question.” 

“Good Queen,” Jimmy replied, kneeling, au¬ 
ger-bit in hand, “spare my head, but sew the 
damn thing yourself. There is no solution but 
the faithful application of the needle held in 
the white and gracious hands of your royal 
highness.” He raised Phyllis’ hand for a kiss. 

“Have a care, Premier,” haughtily replied 
Phyllis, chin in the air, “I am not Victorian, 


Two Women 


121 


nor even post-Victorian, and I cannot be flat¬ 
tered like Premier Disraeli flattered his queen. 
I am nix on the needle. Do you get me, Prem¬ 
ier?” 

“Queen, you said a mouthful ,’’ replied Jimmy 
solemnly. “Nix on the needle is correct, I find, 
after checking you up on that bit of sewing you 
did on the bathroom curtain.” 

Phyllis endeavored unsuccessfully to suppress 
a burst of giggles. 

“But, proud queen, I fear you will have to 
learn,” continued Jimmy, rising and drawing 
himself up dramatically. 

“This means war,” melodramatically replied 
Phyllis. 

“War to the hilt of the scissors, good queen. 
As your premier I advise laying in a complete 
armory of equipment. Already, in yon closet 
are socks, socks and still more socks to darn; 
all ready to march down upon you!” 

“Let their legions come on!” cried Phyllis, 
striking an attitude of queenly defiance with her 
scissors. “I swear they shall be destroyed!” 
And the court dissolved in great laughter. 


CHAPTER X 


The newly-installed telephone rang a few days 
later and Pauline was talking. 

‘ ‘ The office extends greetings to the dove¬ 
cote !” hailed Panline. “You must be having 
a wonderful time!” 

“I am!” proudly exclaimed Phyllis. “Never 
knew I was so domestic! How is the Woman's 
Mirror dragging along without me? 

“WJonderful, considering!” piped Pauline. 
“We’re on a new big thing! Coming down 
soon?” 

“Monday!” announced Phyllis, although she 
had really not definitely decided about it. 

Somehow Pauline’s tone and the hint of lively 
things suddenly produced a revulsion of Phyllis’ 
domestic obsession. She ceased her absorp¬ 
tion in her apartment almost abruptly and 
wished she were going to the office the very next 
day. 

When Monday came she left a number of last 
refinements undone and fled precipitately to her 
job, suddenly harboring a fear that it might not 
be held for her. 


122 


Two Women 


123 

She found the editorial office of the Woman’s 
Mirror vibrating with excitement. 

“My dear girl, you’re just in time for the 
Big Thing!” cried Pauline. Pauline herself was 
too much ablaze with excitement to make person¬ 
al inquiry, for she had had only telephone con¬ 
versations with Phyllis since the return from the 
honeymoon. Pauline, in her nervous manner, 
was twirling the paper weight on her desk as 
she talked. 

Looking about the bustling offices and coming 
in contact with the electric current of busy edi¬ 
torial matters, created a strange se't of feelings 
in Phyllis. The stream of her thoughts had 
run rather placidly on curtains, carpets, pictures, 
clothes, the still nascent sensations and jars of a 
new relationship, Jimmy’s hair, Jimmy’s socks, 
Jimmy’s voice, the iceman, the gasman, the car¬ 
penter, the janitor— 

And now Pauline was tumbling words in a 
torrential stream upon Phyllis’ ears, her eyes 
dancing and glittering in her inimitable expres¬ 
sive way: “We stirred up a hornet’s nest on 
that unmarried mother article of Bita Tolman’s, 
and Mr. Warwick has OK’d a campaign to work 
it up for three or four months, and we have 
a model bill being introduced in the state legis¬ 
lature, and we’re even getting a serial by Kath¬ 
erine Dalrymple, touching on the subject, and 
—oh, yes—there’s a public meeting on the sub¬ 
ject next Tuesday—” 


124 


Two Women 


“Goodness me!” cried Phyllis confused, “you 
are going too fast!” She was also consumed 
with fervor to be in this kind of excitement; 
and with envy and regret that she was not in 
the thick of it already. 

“It’s the first campaign the magazine has ever 
really actively taken hold of,” continued Paul¬ 
ine, unabashed; “and it’s exciting, because the 
women readers who write in are so decided, one 
way or the other. The circulation manager is 
wildl ‘Stop the paper’ orders are coming in 
every day, and he sees us all headed downhill. 
It’s quite dramatic! In the editorial conferen¬ 
ces the men snap at each other, and we women 
have to be regular Portias, pleading at the bar 
to get the thing over. We all get daily bul¬ 
letins from the front—subscription and news¬ 
stand figures, and have daily conferences. Mr. 
Warwick’s come through splendidly, and says 
it’s our chance to break away from being wrong¬ 
ly tagged as a mere fashion sheet and pattern 
catalog. 

“And—what do you think?—some of the 
mothers of the girls who work in the bindery 
and the mailing rooms have taken the girls away 
from us, because they say it’s no place for a 
young girl to work, if the editors are the kind 
of people who print such things!” 

“Delicious!” sparkled Phyllis in reply. “But, 
listen, we ought to get an interview with Mrs. 
Bateman Thomas—I believe I could get her to 


Two Women 


125 


sign it—because she's been working on that sub¬ 
ject for years, and she has a lot of influence." 

'“Good! I knew you’d have some fresh ideas! 
Let’s go in and see Mr. Beardsley and get star* 
ted on it right away if he likes it.’’ 

Mr. Beardsley, editor of the Woman's Mirror, 
was a quick, jerky type, who habitually saw 
your idea before it was quite out of your mouth. 
He was particularly “peppy’’ at present because 
he was seeing an opportunity to make his maga¬ 
zine more alive editorially, if this campaign suc¬ 
ceeded. He was a writer and critic of ability, 
but was much “kidded" at the Players’ Club 
and elsewhere because he was editing a “mother, 
home and heaven" magazine. He had had diffi¬ 
culty previously in keeping zest in his job. 

“Miss Batterman," he snapped as soon as she 
entered—addressing her by her maiden name 
quite consciously, in pursuance of a custom 
rather widespread in the arts—“if you’d come 
only a week later I don’t know if I could have 
held your job for you. This is an exceedingly 
important period for us here. Have you been 
keeping in touch with what’s doing?" 

Phyllis was hardly able to take his rapid pace, 
but Pauline cut in: “Mr. Beardsley, she’s fully 
informed, and she’s got a peachy idea." 

Covering her momentary inarticulation with 
a layer of calm dignity, characteristic of her, 
Phyllis told of her idea. Mr. Beardsley was all 
attention. 


126 


Two Women 


i ‘That’s right! That’s right! I’d almost for¬ 
gotten that Mrs. Thomas was so keen on the sub¬ 
ject. Why, that’s bully! I’ve been thinking if 
we could only get some society women of prom¬ 
inence we might be doing as much or more as 
by arguments. You know women—remember 
what Katherine Fullerton Gerould says—‘women 
are inveterately their social selves!’ Make it a 
bit fashionable, by example, to think or do a 
thing, and it’s fairly certain that women general¬ 
ly will follow. Hustle up, Miss Batterman—you 
know we make up the June issue on the tenth 
and we want to get it in.” 

Feeling as if she’d been given an electric bath, 
Phyllis went to her desk, blew the dust off the 
top, ignored the gathered mail there of a per¬ 
sonal nature, and at once telephoned Mrs. 
Thomas. It was the stirring breath of the old 
atmosphere in her nostrils. It was like magic 
vintage to her palate. 

Before she had had time for lunch she was in 
Mrs. Thomas’ limousine—she had found her 
about to go out and had arranged to be picked 
up—and was concentrating tremendously on her 
interview, for Mrs. Thomas was a rapid talker, 
and Phyllis’ brain mechanism was rusty, she 
discovered to her alarm. She was in fear of 
losing some of the material flowing from Mrs. 
Thomas’ facile tongue. Mrs. Thomas was leav¬ 
ing for a month’s trip, and fast, accurate work 
was absolutely essential. To make it more diffi- 


Two Women 


127 


cult, Mrs. Thomas had the common fault of Am¬ 
erican society women interested in public ques¬ 
tions-—the faults of hyperbole and disjointed 
expressions of ideas, though she was alert and 
intelligent. 

“ Absolutely the most fundamental question 
for women in modern society/’ asseverated 
Mrs. Thomas, speaking with crowding, nervous, 
emphatic words and manner, which plainly 
showed that she had rarely encountered contra¬ 
diction. “I simply cannot stand the implication, 
which is a fact, that women are as merciless as 
Turks, not only to their sisters who happen to 
have a child in a manner they don’t approve 
of, but to the child itself. I love children—you 
know only last week I was driving somewhere 
downtown, and as the car stopped a troop of 
Italian girls came bearing a number of arches 
of artificial flowers, discarded by a street fete 
the night before. I had no sooner stepped 
out of the car when those girls formed a double 
row, holding the arches over my head, and we 
moved along the sidewalk like a bridal party. 
In a few minutes I knew all their names and 
their histories; Carabella—isn’t it a pretty 
name?—has a mother who washes floors in office 
buildings at night and sleeps most of the day! 
One never knows what a life children have!” 

“Very true,” replied Phyllis, seizing advan¬ 
tage of a pause. “But Mrs. Thomas, do you 
in the first place believe the remedy for this 


128 


Two Women 


unmarried mother problem is a legal one or a 
matter of public opinion, or both?” 

By seizing pauses in Mrs. Thomas’ frequent 
strayings from the point, to press her back 
to the subject, Phyllis was thus able by dint 
of much patience and circumlocution, to get a co¬ 
herent stream of ideas. Mrs. Thomas was a 
woman of force and personality, a worthy in¬ 
heritor of the pioneering qualities, accustomed 
to having her own way since the day she caused 
much anxiety at an up-the-Hudson finishing 
school by organizing a revolt against an edict 
banishing bloomers from the campus. Mrs. 
Thomas brought to public questions the same im¬ 
patient intolerance of narrowness. 

“You see, Mrs. Thomas/’ expounded Phyllis, 
after her hostess had become temporarily win¬ 
ded, “We on the Woman’s Mirror ,”—how she 
liked the phrase!—“know the American woman 
pretty well, and know that she’s got to be 
led very deftly; especially on personal and so- 
called moral questions. Sheer logic hasn’t nearly 
so much power as we might hope.” 

“Nor with men either,” put in Mrs. Thomas, 
with true feministic belligerence. 

“Granted—but it’s true to an even greater 
degree with women. Therefore—” 

“I’m glad you bring up the subject of wo¬ 
men’s magazines,” cut in Mrs. Thomas once 
more, while Phyllis patiently paused. “I hope 
I won’t hurt your feelings, but I think they’re 


Two Women 


129 


awful. What woman reads the rot they print! 
The other day I paged over one at the hair¬ 
dresser’s and there wasn’t a thing in it I’d read 
•—not a thing!” 

Phyllis, mnch against her better judgment, ac¬ 
cepted the challenge, for the subject was fresh 
with her,—she had, in her short experience on 
the Woman’s Mirror, veered from precisely Mrs. 
Thomas’ point of view to a new one. She 
straightened up, feeling the relish of dialectic 
battle. 

“But Mrs. Thomas,” she said, “that’s what 
so many of your sort say, and—” 

“What do you mean, of my sort?” 

Phyllis was in polite despair at ever keeping 
pointed in any one conversational direction, but 
took another challenge, and correctly gauged her 
adversary as having respect for blunt speaking. 

“Somewhat idle, no close attention to the de¬ 
tails of domestic economy, no work with your 
hands, and ignorance of the lives of the millions 
of American women,” she ventured daringly. 

Mrs. Thomas laughed. “If you’d just said 
rich and socially prominent I would have been 
annoyed,” she replied; “one hears those epi¬ 
thets so often nowadays that I may be pardoned 
for becoming sensitive to them. But you said 
other things, and they’re true enough—though 
I’m not idle.” 

“Pardon me while I finish my point,” further 
ventured Phyllis, doing a little “cutting in” on 


130 


Two Women 


her own account as she warmed to the subject. 
“The criticism of the women’s magazines is real¬ 
ly blatantly unfair. If you had picked up a 
dental trade paper at your dentist’s you would 
not have felt it surprising not to find it inter¬ 
esting. Now a woman’s home magazine is a 
technical paper—where else might a woman get 
assistance in the technique of her job, which 
you’ll admit is amazingly full of technique? The 
fact that you’re industrially idle, and free from 
technical home duties and are therefore not in¬ 
terested in being helped with them does not in¬ 
dicate that Mrs. Brown in Oskaloosa, or even 
Mrs. Intelligent Housewife in Montclair, with 
a family of five, does not find the paper very 
important to her. 

“Only a short time ago I thought quite as 
you do. I sneered at the housekeeping mate¬ 
rial, the details of how to feed the baby and 
turn a barrel into an armchair—(they say such 
things appear in women’s papers, but I haven’t 
ever seen them!)” 

“But they’re supposed to be women’s papers! 
I’m a woman!” 

“I’ll admit that’s a weakness, but it’s because 
we’ve always arbitrarily assumed that all women 
are housekeepers;—that our mere sex automatic¬ 
ally denotes our subject of deepest interest. It 
isn’t true—you’re proof of it. So are millions of 
stenographers and business women, social 
workers and school teachers who live at home 


Two Women 


131 


and whose mothers relieve them of all house¬ 
keeping cares, so that they haven’t much inter¬ 
est in the subject until they marry. Such wo¬ 
men sniff at ‘women’s papers’ too, and prefer 
fiction magazines and others. They suffer from 
it when they get married because they have to 
start almost at the bottom to learn their trade. 

Mrs. Thomas opened her month to cut in here, 
but Phyllis was in full swing. 

“The sad thing is that until lately any wo¬ 
man’s magazine that tried to interest women in 
any thing but household and fashion material 
and stories paid the penalty. But things are 
slowly changing— lhat’s why we are printing at 
present a lot of material on this subject—it 
shakes women out of their lethargy, and makes 
them take sides on the matter of ideas. Mrs. 
Thomas, you have no conception of the job it 
has been to get a response from women in the 
matter of progress in ideas, civic or political 
or social. Some time ago an editor of a large 
woman’s magazine admitted to me that although 
he had tried for years he had failed to arouse 
any civic interest in women, and he was a cynic 
on anything except an appeal to women’s per¬ 
sonal vanity and immediate household surround¬ 
ings. It was a daring thing for us to attempt 
to treat this subject of unmarried mothers. 
We’re losing subscribers, but we’re going to 
stick to this campaign until it’s definitely proved 


132 


Two Women 


that we can’t get a real response. So please 
don’t blame us, Mrs. Thomas—it’s women as a 
sex, not the magazines that serve them, who 
are guilty of lack of interest in the things you’re 
interested in.” 

Although Mrs. Thomas had fidgeted on her 
seat and had opened her month to speak more 
than once, Phyllis had shrewdly talked at high 
pressure until she was finished. She keenly en¬ 
joyed it, even though it was poor journalistic 
technique for an interviewer to do so much of 
the talking. It was dynamic expression for her; 
a sense, which had been failing her, of using 
her powers agreeably and effectively. 

“I’m awfully glad to get your point of view,” 
replied Mrs. Thomas, looking at her apprais¬ 
ingly; “you talk well, too . . . Won’t you come 
up some Friday evening after I get back and 
talk to one of my groups?” 

“Perhaps,” replied Phyllis, vaguely. She was 
flattered. New vistas opened up before her; 
she had never imagined herself in the role of a 
speaker. No doubt Mrs. Thomas’ groups, would 
be a little tiresome, but she felt the pull of the 
idea; as Mark would say, it would be splendid 
“ego nourishment”. 

Mrs. Brown gave orders to the chauffeur; 
which brought Phyllis to the realization that her 
interview job was only half done. 

“I must bring you back to the unmarried 


Two Women 


133 


mother problem,” she said apologetically and anx¬ 
iously. ‘‘You’ve been abroad recently. No 
doubt yon fonnd Europe far ahead of ns on 
this subject.” 

“Pathetically so,” responded Mrs. Thomas, 
turning alertly toward Phyllis; fingering her 
long chain nervously as she prepared to resume 
dominance of the conversation. “I saw the now 
famous granite statue by Felix Desruelles at 
Lille—‘To the Unwed Mothers of France’—de¬ 
picting a peasant girl holding her war baby and 
shielding its face as if from public gaze. In 
no country but France, don’t you agree, would 
they have that kind of social courage. Fancy 
such a statue in Boston or Philadelphia or St. 
Louis! It is a wonderful gesture of moral grace 
■—don’t you think so?” 

“Indeed it is,” replied Phyllis. “Probably 
the most graceful French act since the cannoni- 
zation of Joan of Arc. Funny, I hadn’t known 
about this statue. Wouldn’t a photo of it make 
a fine illustration in the magazine!” 

“Splendid!” vibrantly responded Mrs. Thom¬ 
as, her eyelids snapping approvingly. “I have 
one—” 

“Oh, do let me borrow it to make a half¬ 
tone!” cried Phyllis. 

“If you’ll promise to take care of it—” 

“I’ll personally return it to you.” 

“Very well—we’ll be at the house soon, and 


134 


Two Women 


I’ll have it in yonr hands at once. I collect 
statuary you know, and I’m arranging for a 
cast of this statue for my study. You must 
see my bronzes—small things, but so exquisite. 
While in Florence—” 

“Do tell me more about this statue in Lille,’’ 
interrupted Phyllis, sweetly, as she saw her in¬ 
terview soon gone glimmering. 

“I saw personally Henri Gliesquire, the well- 
known French philanthropist, whose gift it is, 
and congratulated him. He and all France say 
the sins of war must not descend to the children. 
And with true French thoroughness, they have 
not only written this attitude on their statute 
books, but also on their own social standards. 
All France approves. Perhaps this wasn’t so 
hard as it might be for us, because among the 
peasants bethrothal has always virtually meant 
marriage. When the statue was unveiled a great 
throng was present, and there was weeping and 
reverence. Felix Desruelles says, that the statue 
is intended to glorify the unmarried mother as a 
mother, and is dedicated to the idea that as a 
mother she is entitled to the respect and homage 
of France.” 

“I suppose the 4 illegitimate’ war babies in 
France were very numerous.” 

Mrs. Thomas opened up her bag. “Here are 
the figures given me by Princess Murat, a high¬ 
born French woman, as you know, who is at the 


Two Women 


135 


head of a society for the protection of children 
born in the invaded regions. See—more than 
a quarter of a million such babies are alive 
in France today!” 

Phyllis gasped. 

“But note this—and French women are sen¬ 
sitive on this point—France actually has less 
than England. Look at England’s figure— 
262,779—and the war was not fought on her 
ground. I reminded the Marchioness of Granby 
of this when we discussed this in England— 
the Marchioness, you know is working splen¬ 
didly on this problem.” 

“But look at Germany’s figure!” ejaculated 
Phyllis; “898,213! And look at the grand total 
for all seven countries—about two and a half 
million babies! These are astounding, important 
figures—I must copy them! ’ ’ 

The car rolled up to the curb in front of 
Mrs. Thomas’ house just then. “Will you come 
in?” she asked. 

“I know I shouldn’t keep you,” pleaded Phyl¬ 
lis, “but may I sit here in the car just a few 
more minutes with you?” 

So at high speed, Phyllis frankly taking notes, 
Mrs. Thomas further amplified her information 
on the European situation; about England’s bill 
then in the House of Commons for legitimatizing 
war babies; how in Italy the war babies have 
actually a better chance than the legitimate chil¬ 
dren of the poor; how the German constitution 


136 


Two Women 


grants the same rights and opportunities to both 
legitimate and illegitimate; how in Sweden the 
mother of an illegitimate baby is given a legal 
standing as the divorced wife of the father, if 
he doesn’t marry her; how in Norway the father 
must support an illegitimate baby according 
to his own financial and social standing, and 
give it equal inheritance rights. 

“Now I must go!” said Phyllis, finally; “will 
you please get the photo *—also one of your latest 
photos?” 

Mrs. Thomas made a deprecating gesture, 
but provided a handsome photo of herself never¬ 
theless. 

As she breathed deeply of the early fall air 
on leaving the subway later, her material pre¬ 
ciously clasped in her hands, Phyllis felt a most 
energizing sense of power and buoyancy. Mar¬ 
ried to a personable, comforting, quite intelligent 
man! .... Back, almost instantly, in the very 
thick of just the life she liked! . . . Her head 
bursting with material for the Thomas inter¬ 
view! .... An invitation to make an address! 
.Life was righting itself for her splen¬ 
didly. 

As she let herself in the door she heard sounds 
from the kitchen. 

“Upon my word!” she said, striking an at¬ 
titude; “he’s washing the dishes!” 

“Philly, where’ve you been?” came Jimmy’s 
slightly petulant voice out of the semi-darkness; 




Two Women 


137 


“do you know it’s nearly seven? I stood it as 
long as I could sitting here with those unwashed 
breakfast dishes perfuming the room, and then 
I took hold myself.’’ 

“Poor thing!” cried Phyllis, laying off her 
hat, “it shall have its supper right away! Out 
of there and rest from your labors!” 

“I want these potatoes done the way I like 
them,” replied Jimmy colorlessly; “don’t you 
know the trick yet, Philly, of emptying out the 
w^ater after they’re cooked, and putting the pot 
back on the stove a few minutes? The potatoes 
get as nice and mealy, almost, as if they’d been 
baked.” 

“I’ll remmember,” answered Phyllis, contrite¬ 
ly, as she labored with a curious sense of in¬ 
congruity. 

“And do hurry up with those sash curtains 
in the bedroom. Those people on the floors 
above can look right in.” 

“All right, Jimmy dear, I’m sorry. I meant 
to get those rods today. But Oh, what a day!” 
And Phyllis came into the kitchen but half-lit 
from a bulb some distance away, and took Jim¬ 
my’s arm playfully. “My job has opened out 
in just the most delightful way, Jimmy! I’m 
hardly inside the office when things happen! 
The Woman’s Mirror is going to be a real mag¬ 
azine after all! It’s getting back of the unmar¬ 
ried mother problem with a vim. I’ve been in¬ 
terviewing Mrs. Bateman Thomas half the af- 


138 


Two Women 


ternoon—been riding around in her swell limou¬ 
sine until just a little while ago!” 

“Oh, you were?” commented Jimmy, mildly, 
as he noised about among the pots. 

“Yes, and I’ve got a great interview,” bub¬ 
bled on Phyllis, “which she’ll sign . Isn’t that 
great? They don’t believe I’m going to be able 
to do it down at the office! Only I must write 
it quick, tonight, so that she can see a proof 
before we go to press . . . also before she can 
change her mind or her views! .... Now, 
please get out of here, and let me rustle the 
pots!” t 

Jimmy got out of the kitchenette and disap¬ 
peared to change to his dressing gown and slip¬ 
pers. 

At the dinner table Phyllis regaled him at 
length with her conversations at the office and 
with Mrs. Thomas. She talked happily on a 
long time, but Jimmy said very little. 

“What do you think about the problem, Jim¬ 
my? she asked. 

“Me? I don’t know, Philly. I never thought 
much about it,” replied Jimmy. 

“You don’t seem interested,” Phyllis com¬ 
mented. 

“Of course I’m interested,” reassured Jim¬ 
my, with one of his sweet smiles. Phyllis 
was satisfied. 

“Tell me what yoiTve been doing today?” 
asked Phyllis. 



Two Women 


139 


“Nothing much—regular routine,” was Jim¬ 
my's comment,—the same that he always made 
when Phyllis on many occasions had made this 
inquiry. He rarely had anything to say regard¬ 
ing his work. 

Phyllis worked until after midnight at the in¬ 
terview, finally completing it and very sleepily 
crawling to bed. As she did so, and before 
switching off the light, she looked at Owen 
stretched out so placidly and so calmly asleep, 
his lips at such an angle of half petulant, boyish 
simplicity; and she experienced the first vague 
sensation of the maternal. 

“He's my baby, I suppose,” she said with an 
odd little laugh, only partly of pleasure, as she 
pulled the blankets up over his exposed shoulder. 


CHAPTER XI 


An indomitable spirit at war with irrevocable 
fact makes a cruel Gethsemane. It is also an 
ascending spiritual experience, however it may 
torture the flesh. 

Mark Stockman was for months a man on a 
cross, and only his physical and mental stamina, 
wrought hard in the furnace of self-reliance, 
saved him whole. In his office he found himself 
rising often from his chair and gazing dis¬ 
consolately out of his window down twelve 
stories upon the maze of windows, traffic and 
structures, great and small, which was New 
York. He might be in the midst of an im¬ 
portant piece of work, but when across his vision 
would come Phyllis, abruptly would he rise 
and stride to the window, so powerful were the 
reversals of feeling and concentration which 
came upon him. The liveliest projects lost 
their salt and savor; the best of pleasures 
seemed somehow blunted. He slept with diffi¬ 
culty, and turned many times in the night, 
often struggling with strange dreams ; the haun¬ 
ting ever-present pain sometimes rose to a 
140 


Two Women 


141 


high, strange point of weariness which actually 
overcame him with its slow, seeping agonies, 
seeming to be seated at the very center of 
thought and being, out of reach of every pana¬ 
cea or palliative. 

He cultivated with determination everything 
which held interest for him; mnsic, the company 
of stimulating men, tennis, walks, work, the 
theatre, tobacco, books,—but with relentless 
cruelty the obsessing hurt protruded itself para¬ 
doxically at the very moment when it seemed 
most certain that he had conquered it. With the 
swiftness of an invisible scythe his interest or 
preoccupying pleasure would be cut down and 
laid low. His normal good spirits would sud¬ 
denly vanish, just as he was thoroughly im¬ 
mersed and diverted, and then, would come the 
struggle to maintain the spirit of but a mo¬ 
ment before; the embarrassment of the change 
being noted by his companions; the slipping 
sensation of vainly endeavoring to maintain 
his hold upon a steep, yawning incline without 
a solitary hand or foothold. 

With only two human beings could he endure 
to be, under such circumstances—Pauline , or old 
pipe-preoccupied Brayton Oliver, the literary 
critic and reader on the publication for which he 
worked. Pauline understood and ministered to his 
need; Brayton Oliver was impervious to mere 
mood in anyone: a man might be tortured with 
red hot irons before him, and Oliver would hold 


142 


Two Women 


forth unceasingly upon the decay of literary 
standards, so long as the poor devil didn’t 
drown his fnll-throated bass with his cries of 
suffering. Oliver officed in the same room with 
him. His hat worn on the back of his head 
while at work and forever humming a Winter 
Garden song; (an odd contrast to his esoteric 
literary standards) Oliver was a character. He 
never noted anything wrong with Mark, unless 1 
Mark gave vent to his feelings in words, which 
sometimes happened. 

When, therefore, Mark late one afternoon stood 
watching the gathering dusk and the myriad 
windows lighting up in the Herald Square dis¬ 
trict, and smote the window frame with his fist, 
saying: “Black! black—just as black as the 
night!”—(his desolate characterization of his 
hopes), Brayton turned and said, “What’s that, 
old top?” 

“Oh, I’m feeling a bit grumpy, that’s all,” 
said Mark, slipping back tamely into his chair. 

“You don’t go out much, do you?” asked 
Brayton. “Why don’t you mix up a bit? Bet 
you’re taking your work here too damn serious¬ 
ly^ 

Mark laughed a little bitterly. If he only 
could take his work still more seriously just 
now! “Wliat are you doing that’s so all-fired 
joyous?” he asked sceptically. 

“Well,” drawled Brayton, taking some long 
puffs at his pipe, “I’m publicity man for Betty 


Two Women 


143 


Langdon, playing in 'The Red, Red Rose’, and 
that means open sesame at the stage entrance 
and a whole hatful of girls to play with.” 

44 Hm,” responded Mark, taken aback. He had 
not suspected Brayton of such adventurous nov¬ 
elty. 

44 Tell you what,” said Brayton, 44 why not 
come along tonight? Betty’s giving a party to 
introduce her sister. Betty came from Carbon- 
dale, you know, and sister Sue, who has been 
living with her now wants to See Life!” 

44 Ah,” smiled Mark, 44 a Cinderella, eh?” 

44 Right!—and you can be the Prince if you’ll 
play the art. You solemn old ass, play up 
and come along!” 

4 4 Why should some chits of girls from Car- 
bondale cheer me up?” asked Mark, stubbornly. 
The virus of misogyny and cynicism was as¬ 
sailing his spirit, perhaps unawares. 

44 My boy,” said Brayton, assuming that pater¬ 
nal air he sometimes essayed, though he was but 
a couple of years older than Mark, 4 4 you’re sick 
with something that once had me fast in its ten¬ 
tacles you’re an E. Y. M.—an Earnest Young 
Man; adamn stick; you’re too serious and tense 
—you know nothing about play; you’re like a lot 
of Americans—you haven’t had a Continental 
education, and—” 

44 Oh, hell! don’t go off on that line again,” 
interjected Mark irritably, fastening his tense, 
fixed stare upon Brayton; 44 you’re always trot- 


144 


Two Women 


ting ont your European bunk. Wbat do you 
mean, play? Chippy-chasing?” 

“I mean playing with your eyes, with your 
smiles, your words and your emotions and your 
aesthetic sensibilities. ’ ’ 

“What’s that got to do with girls from Car- 
bondale?” 

Brayton relit his pipe calmly. “A lot, old 
owl. That’s what I learned. Let me tell you 
the story. Once upon a time I was a solemn old 
ass like yourself—old before I was thirty! I 
was a literary acolyte and a bit of a recluse.” 

“I’m no recluse, you big stiff,” cut in Mark 
rudely. 

“As Isadora Duncan said in French to her 
darling little blonde husband when the immigra¬ 
tion authorities held them up, ‘be tranquil’; let 
me tell my story. I tell you I was just like you; 
I couldn’t laugh when the joke was on me. I 
laughed far too little; all my play-muscles were 
stiff; my egotistical blood-pressure was high and 
I hadn’t much fun.” 

“Well, one day a girl I used to know, came to 
New York from Chi—you know they expect you 
to show ’em the town. I did; and she flirted 
with me as I’ve never been flirted with before. 
She kidded me, vamped me, flattered me, snubbed 
me and in general curved me around her little 
finger. She had become a very lovely girl; but 
do you know I couldn’t crack a smile or wield 
the rapier with her to save me! I wanted to, but 


Two Women 


145 


I couldn’t make my face or my tongue work. 
I suddenly felt old and out of it. I was furious, 
and from that day on I began to want to know 
how to play. And I knew that the most stimulat¬ 
ing play in the world is play with the opposite 
sex. I can only think of those years ago and 
laugh at myself. It’s the best thing in life— 
even solemn old Henry James said so, and good¬ 
ness knows he was priggish enough. A girl’s 
closer to nature—that’s why she instinctively 
plays. It’s a poem to watch a natural, unspoiled 
girl at play with you; and if she’s got brains 
and still is unspoiled, boy, you’ve got the mak¬ 
ings of heaven!” 

“Well, w r hy haven’t you married if all this 
is so?” asked Mark, more or less intrigued by 
the conversation. 

Brayton looked grave, as he pounded his pipe 
on the sole of his shoe. “Marriage is another 
story, Stockman,” he said; “I don’t believe in 
marriage for anyone planning an artistic career; 
but that’s personal.” 

“But why not?” insisted Mark. 

“It’s a deep discussion,” replied Brayton re¬ 
luctantly; “sometime I’ll go into it with you. 
But an artistic career in my opinion, is like a 
dash for the Pole; it’s a terrific strain permit¬ 
ting nothing to interfere. Did Peary take his 
wife? No! Not a superfluous pound of bag¬ 
gage! Get all strapped up to a little bit of 
baggage, as the English call a lively girl, and 


146 


Two Women 


you’ll never make your Pole! That’s in brief 
what I mean. But how about tonight?” 

Mark continued his steady intent gaze at Bray- 
ton. “All right,” he said, without a smile. 

So it was that he found himself seated at the 
Astor, next to Sue, Betty Langdon’s sister, on 
one side, and on the other Sonia Levinsohn, a 
most unique creature in a Batik blouse, a Rus¬ 
sian Jewess; black-eyed, oval of face and beauti¬ 
ful in texture of skin, with a quiet, tragic look, 
but of obvious intensity of nature. Sue was 
transparently a solid, dependable person, amaz¬ 
ingly different from Betty, who was feline and 
polished to a high gloss in the wiles and cajol¬ 
eries of man-relations. Betty cultivated baby 
manners and airs, a petulant, childish voice, but 
ruled by means of it with an autocratic control. 
There was in the party besides Brayton and an¬ 
other rather non-descript girl and an equally non¬ 
descript man, a sleek man of middle age, wearing 
nose glasses, whom they called Harry. Mark 
didn’t get the last name. Sue had whispered 
that Betty was engaged to him. 

The atmosphere was uttterly new to Mark. 
The prolonged, fussy rite of ordering an expen¬ 
sive supper; Betty’s and Sonia’s theatrical 
clothes, and running theatrical comment; the 
petty quarrels right in front of the waiters, 
the innane baby talk, combined to make the oc¬ 
casion unique. He could not get over his sur- 



Two Women 147 

prise at seeing Brayton perfectly at home in the 
atmosphere. 

He was awakened out of a tiny reverie by the 
harsh words, “Shut np, Betty, and let a man get 
a word in.” 

“I won’t, I won’t, I won’t, so there!” ex¬ 
claimed Betty, sticking out her tongue—a lot 
of it—at the speaker, Harry. She had carried 
on a running complaint about something connec¬ 
ted with the show—Mark could not gather what. 

“Yes, you will, you little monkey,” said Har¬ 
ry, evidently angry. “I’ll leave the whole gang 
and go home if you don’t.” 

For answer Betty threw a roll at him viciously 
and Harry in reprisal twisted her arm until she 
screamed, and nearby diners gasped. 

Mark sat amazed and shocked, but it seemed 
to concern no one and actually improve the con¬ 
versation, for the next moment Sonia made a 
witty sally, and presto! Betty and the whole 
party were on a new footing of merriment and 
amity. 

“Bimps, I need you the worst way, now,” said 
Betty pouting. She meant Drayton; she had an 
impossible name for everyone about her. 

“Why?” asked Drayton, with a mock-tragedy 
look, “aren’t they laughing at your Santa Claus 
prayer any more?” 

“The idea!” stormed Betty, much insulted, 
and acting facially in a way that was diverting 
to Mark, unused to actresses at play. “I won’t 


148 


Two Women 


have anybody, a-n-y-b-o-d-y— think of snch a 
thing. Take it back! Bo you take it back , yon 
elephant’s toe?” And she lifted a cnbe of ice 
from the unfilled goblet at her side. 

Drayton acted as an abject, simpering dolt, and 
hugely delighted at his role, stammered out, 
hands up, a good fac-simile apology: “G-g-g-reat 
lady, p-p-pity me and f-f-f-forgive. Never, never 
no never again; fry me in hot lead if you ever 
catch me at it again! I swallow each separate 
letter of the alphabet! Your act is immortal: 
do you get me, immortal, I say!” 

“Carry him out on a dustpan, Harry,” sat¬ 
irically cut in Sonia. 

“Nol I need him!” commanded Betty, tap¬ 
ping her plate imperiously with her knife. “As 
I was saying before the poor egg interrupted me, 
I need a press agent the worst way. Elaine got 
somq stuff, with her picture, across yesterday in 
‘The World’.” (The name Elaine—an actress in 
the same cast—was spoken slowly, with elabor¬ 
ate disdain.) “I can’t let that hairpin give me 
the laugh. Step on the ink, Professor , and squirt 
me into the public eye p. d. q.!” 

Mark laughed a sudden uncontrolled laughr— 
the first of the evening. 

Poor Drayton looked honestly harassed. For 
twenty-five per week and a few dollars for mim¬ 
eograph expense and postage (which item Betty 
subjected to unbelievable detailed, suspicious 
auditing) he was expected to think up once or 


Two Women 


149 


twice a week gems of brilliance in press-agent¬ 
ing her that would “get by” the case-hardened 
New York City editors! He wasn’t admitting it, 
but the going was becoming hard,—as Mark 
sensed, being trained in newspaper work him¬ 
self. The show was now getting really diverting 
to him; and he took delight in getting back at 
Drayton for his pompous lecturing of the after¬ 
noon. 

“Certainly,” Mark made bold to say, “help 
out the beautiful lady in distress, old Knight of 
the Pen! Come across with a bright idea before 
they bring on the salad, old top, and we’ll toss it 
off and give it to the papers tonight!” 

“Goody, goody!” cried Betty clapping her 
hands, “ that’s the tabasco! Why Blimps hasn’t 
landed anything for me in two weeks! You 
could get me over big, I’ll bet a bracelet! Are 
you very high priced?” 

“Just about your speed!” ingratiatingly re¬ 
sponded Mark with rollicking delight at the fun, 
as he watched Drayton’s moonlike face, register¬ 
ing slight actual embarrassment, as well as good- 
natured willingness to be teased “As a matter 
of fact, Miss Langdon, I have a perfectly won¬ 
derful publicity idea now! ” 

“Oh, oh!”—Betty was becoming ecstatic; and 
in full’ stage manner too; with disdain (or cal¬ 
culation) of the attention of the diners nearby. 
“I simply must have it! And don’t you dare 
Miss Langdon me any more.” 


150 


Two Women 


“Certainly not, Betty. No, I'm going to 
call yon Crimps. My name’s Mark.” 

“And I’ll call yon Jimps!” Betty jnmped ont 
of her chair, ran over to him and kissed him. 
“Yon dear! Now what is the idea?” 

“Awfully sorry, Crimps,” Mark elaborately 
made reply, his eyes fnll of mischief, “bnt pro¬ 
fessional conrtesy, yon know .... If I were 
yonr press agent . . . bnt yon see Bimps is yonr 
man. I can’t—” 

“I won’t have it!” stormed Betty. “Bimps 
yon’re fired, do yon hear? Jimps is my press 
agent now.” 

“Yessnm,” said Drayton, looking more and 
more thoronghly teased. 

“Oh, I conldn’t have that,” said Mark, pat¬ 
ronizingly, “no, no! Bnt if Bimps will pony np 
with this week’s salary—” 

“Shame! it shonld be a month’s salary!” 
Betty was amazingly trained to be qnick on the 
trigger. 

“Wiait till yon hear the idea,” drawled Dray¬ 
ton. “Come on now, what’s yonr ripping 
hnneh?” 

“Just this,” said Mark carelessly; “Betty and 
another girl are discovered laying wagers that 
the jewels Betty wears are heavier than the 
dress she wears; and they get a pair of scales 
and settle the bet.” 

" “Oo-oo -ool” Betty conldn’t sit still in her 


Two Women 


151 


chair; she jumped up and down on it in ex¬ 
citement. “Wonderful!” 

“Ritzy!” 

“0 la la!” 

“Why her jewels would weigh more than her 
clothes—just look and see!” 

A continuous chorus of praise poured forth. 
Drayton looked at Mark a hit sheepishly, but 
seriously. “Damn good idea, all right, Stock- 
man.” 

“Good!” cried Betty all in a fervor, “why it’s, 
it’s a hurricane! I’m serious, Jimps, will you 
be my press agent? Bimps is getting too old, 
I’m afraid.” Business of pathetic, patronizing 
lo'oks at Drayton. 

“That’s just it,” sympathized Mark; “but I 
don’t really feel it’s quite right to take the oats 
right away from an old war horse like that; with 
winter coming on, too. I’ll give him an idea 
every once in a while to help him out!” 

And so the evening went—kittenishly, horse- 
playishly, unintellectually, but quite agreeably. 

At the conclusion Mark felt strangely as if he 
had been in a foreign country and had enor¬ 
mously enjoyed it. In fact he felt to an inor¬ 
dinate degree a sense of slackened tension and 
return to barbaric first principles. It was exact¬ 
ly as though he had romped on the carpet 
with children. It had the flavor of school days 
and uninhibited play; something which, it struck 
him with an arrest of thought, he had had little 


152 


Two Women 


of all his life. He had a sense of humor; why 
had he worked it so little? The wit and satire 
of the more cultivated people he had been as¬ 
sociated with was too cerebral; to feeble to have 
the vascular power to lave one’s entire self in 
healthful laughter. 

“Those people laughed with their bodies as 
well as with their minds;—they played with 
their whole selves. Such fun is more hearty 
than I’ve been taught to believe is refined; but 
they struck a deeper note of nature . . . By 
George, I’ll bet that’s why Sarah Bernhardt is 
young in spirit at almost four-score! Her art 
of acting is the art of expression. That little 
minx Betty is a Tartar, but she does know how 
to play—with her eyes, her hands, her feet, her 
body, her wits, her tongue! And her language! 
She makes me think of George Moore’s state¬ 
ment that there’s more real literature in a crude 
parlor maid’s slang than in the correct, standar¬ 
dized manners of your cultured person.I 

can see why men fall for women of the stage— 
men are looking for a perfect instrument of wo¬ 
man—expression and play!” 

And then, Phyllis being the hub and center of 
his thought and feeling, he fell moodily to ar¬ 
ranging his striking new impressions in relation 
to her; and the moment his mind reverted 
to her his temperature fell. 

“What a woman Phyllis would be if she could 
play more! She does it only once in a long 



Two Women 


153 


while, and then only if she initiates it and takes 
the leading role! .... But, good lord, why 
should I make the criticism! I can see IVe been 
the same leaden-spirited old dope! .... I’m 
going to learn to play ; God knows I’ll need 
every resource of humor and philosophy in the 
years to come. I’ll never forget the impres¬ 
sions of to-night. I learned something about 
myself.” 

The old mood, once returned, could not be 
shaken off. If he turned a street corner, his 
subconsciousness almost made him see Phyllis 
coming from the opposite direction; if he heard 
women’s voices, he was tricked into believing 
he heard her voice; if the telephone rang, he 
imagined for an instant it was she; if he saw a 
pile of letters on his tray, there was always a 
moment when he thought it looked like her part¬ 
icular style of envelope or handwriting. 

But Phyllis, true to every neatly inculcated 
maidenly principle, had no more men friends, 
and never included him in her frequent gather¬ 
ings; only couples, married or single, or men 
whom Owen suggested, now were on her list. 
If she felt that this was any violation of friend¬ 
ships, it appeared to her to be merely the con¬ 
ventional thing; and Phyllis was of course in¬ 
herently conventional, even if mentally liberal; 
particularly in regard to all matters of sex. 
If she thought of Mark at all, it was to wish 




154 


Two Women 


for a little of his invigorating presence, and to 
destroy that wish all in the same moment. 

Meantime Mark projected himself into hia 
work and his friendships with a sense of prideful 
determination characteristic of him. If he were 
to he compelled to bargain with fate he would 
drive the hardest bargain that could be made. 
He would cheat his pain all he could by turn¬ 
ing his consciousness away from it. 

Betty’s ‘ 4 Sister Sue” who had sat next to 
him at the dinner party, had mentioned that she 
had never been in Chinatown, and Mark had 
promptly promised to take her there. New 
York’s Chinatown was a favorite haunt of 
Mark’s. He liked its color, its alternate gilt 
and wretchedness; its narrow streets; its quaint 
Chinese children, its malodorous shops—even its 
half-scared tourist visitors, titillating their avid 
imaginations with the non-existent opium dens. 
He had agreed to take Sue there because she 
had rather warmed his sympathies. He sus¬ 
pected the Cinderella qualities and situation 
that existed in her household. He had no illusions 
about Betty—he altogether expected to learn 
that she was vain, selfish and cruel, in addition 
to her Sybaritic charm. 

Snuggled up into one of the typical carved 
teakwood corners in a Pell Street Chinese rest¬ 
aurant,—after quickened heartbeats while walk¬ 
ing through the narrow, dusky street and seeing 
slinking, evil-looking Chinamen in dark alleyways, 


Two Women 


155 


—Sister Sue quickly became confidential, in the 
easy manner of her class and kind. She had 
few reserves, and missing her confidants in 
Carbondale, she unburdened herself readily to 
Mark, who had no hesitation in questioning her. 
He had an inordinate desire to hurrow into an¬ 
other’s life and thus lose the imminence of his 


“I suppose you keep house for Betty?” he in¬ 
quired, to encourage the flow of confidence. 

Sue’s face (it was apparently a family trait) 
took on a childish pout. 

“I won’t be known as Betty’s housekeeper,” 
she exclaimed; “not to you, anyway.” 

“No?” said Mark, intrigued at once with his 
expected disclosure of the sisterly psychology. 

“I’m not,” continued Sue vehemently, “so 
there. I’m a business woman.” 

“Yes?” ii? A , 

“If I have to get up and make breakfast and 
clean the flat because I must be at the office at 
nine, while she can lie in bed, that s not my 
fault. And if she leaves things mussed up and is 
gone most of the time when I get home, and 
I must clean up again so I can eat decently, that 

doesn’t make me a housekeeper!” 

Sue referred to “she” with a peculiar intona¬ 
tion which caught Mark’s acute ear It was evi¬ 
dent that a subtle antagonism existed between 
them; unconsciously Sue was referring o 
a nation at war refers to The Enemy. 


156 


Two Women 


“What do you work at?” asked Mark. 

“Oh, Pm just a steno,” she said, with evident 
sensitiveness, “but I guess if I wasn't, we’d 
have a nice time of it!” She put her chin in the 
air in an eloquent manner that proved if Betty 
had the lion’s share of histrionic ability, Sue at 
least “had the makings” of the same thing. 

“How’s that?” encouraged Mark. 

“Well,” snapped Sue, “you know what the 
last few seasons have been in the show business. 
Why Betty was out of work for five months, un¬ 
til the Bed, Red Rose went on!” 

“And you supported her?” 

“Sure. She never had any money saved. I 
haven’t had a penny from her since last March.” 

“Not even now?” 

Sue shook her head. “ Clothes ,” she said ex¬ 
pressively. “Why, I lent her money for her 
clothes, and she has frightfully expensive tastes. 
She just won’t save, and she’d better. She’ll be 
too old after a while—that’s the way it goes in 
the show business.” 

“How old is she?” 

Sue became demure. “Guess, now—who’s the 
oldest, she or me?” 

Mark hesitated—but only a fraction of an in¬ 
stant—not enough to be lost! 

“She, of course”—though he believed it was 
the other way ’round. 

She brightened appreciatively. “She’s twenty- 


Two Women 


157 


eight—yon mustn't say a word ; Mr. Cartwright 
thinks she's twenty-three. I'm twenty-five. It's 
a joke on Mr. Cartwright—he boasts he has no 
use in his company for girls over twenty-four f 
But yon should see how I have to keep after her! 
I just fight with her about candy . . . and she 
worries me so." 

“Why?" 

“Because!" . . . Sue seemed at last to have 
struck a reserve. 

“Yes?" 

“Well, she's so careless . . . why, just last 
week she lost Sonia's bracelet in a taxi—and 
now I'm paying Sonia back in installments!" 

Mark looked thoroughly sympathetic. 

“Thank Goodness the management furnishes 
the silk stockings, anyhow," Sue chattered on, 
“or we never would come through . . . But that's 
not what I'm worrying about most.” 

“No?" 

Sue was silent a moment. “She's all snarled 
up in a mess. Harry’s her fiance, you know." 
Sue's face expressed a bit of scorn. “And the 
way he treats her! You saw him twist her arm 
and jaw her right at the party? That's noth¬ 
ing. He cracks her on the jaw as if she were 
a man." i 

“The hound," frowned Mark. 

“She’s in love with Basil—you saw the nice 
boy with us at the party, the scenery artist? 
He's a dear.” 


158 


Two Women 


“Just a minute/’ said Mark, puzzled* “I’m 
afraid I'm lost. Didn’t you say Betty was en¬ 
gaged to Harry!” 

“Um-hm,” replied Sue. 

“Wiell, then,”— 

“Doesn’t matter—she’s in love with Basil, 
anyhow. But she treats him like dirt.” 

“Who!” asked Mark, still puzzled. 

“Basil,” said Sue, impatiently. 

“But if she loves him”— 

“You don’t know much about girls, do you!” 
replied Sue, with a twinkle. 

“I suppose not,” replied Mark, stiffening. 

“Basil is so much in love with her, he takes 
anything from her, and she walks all over him.” 

“You surely must be mistaken,” Mark replied. 
“She’s engaged to Harry; naturally she’d treat 
Basil indifferently.” 

“I tell you she loves Basil, but Harry’s got 
her under a spell. He knows how to handle her; 
she can’t get fresh with him. But she pets Basil 
and raves about his eyes; while she never says 
anything nice about Harry; sometimes she says 
she hates him. But she never says it to him.” 

“How queer,” said Mark, in a daze. 

“It’s not all queer,” cried Sue; “I can see 
through it, can’t you! Harry’s been engaged to 
her for five years, and the way he talks about 
women, you’d think he hates them all.” 


Two Women 


159 


“Why in the name of sense doesn’t he marry 
her?” , 

Sue laughed ruefully. “Can’t you see it? 

They neither of them really want to marry.j 
Harry’s fifteen years older than she; he’s a 
bachelor, and he’s afraid of Betty’s expensive 
habits. He’s tight. He likes to be seen out 
with a show girl; she helps him have a good 
time; and she doesn’t want to marry him because 
she really doesn’t love him!” 

“Good Lord!” Mark stared in rapt confusion 
and interest. 

“Please help me,” said Sue, “I don’t know 
what to do. It just goes on and on this way. 
Poor Basil is such a baby—he just doesn’t do 
anything about it, either.” 

“You must persuade Betty to break the en¬ 
gagement,” said Mark, decisively. 

Sue laughed. “She’s terribly stubborn, and 
she won’t listen to anything I say. Don’t you 
see, she doesn’t mind it, either, being engaged. 
He has a limousine and he takes her to the 
theatre and back home regularly.” 

“To see that no one else gets her, the dog in 
the manger,” growled Mark, indignantly. 

“Yes, but it also keeps the Johnnies away. 
And you know other girls in the show think 
she’s a lot more if someone comes for her with 
a limousine regularly.” 

“This Harry person, then, as I get it, has 
most of the advantages of being married to Bet- 


160 


Two Women 


ty and none of the responsibilities, and it doesn't 
cost him a cent except a quart of gasoline a 
day!" 

Sue laughed. 

*‘You \are holding the bag for him, you little 
fool," Mark continued indignantly. “You work 
your little hands off providing food, clothing 
and shelter for the girl, except the few months 
she's playing, and she lives soft on the extra 
money she should be saving. And in a few years 
the show will say goodbye to her, and then you'll 
support her entirely." 

Mark looked intently at the modern example 
of a Cinderella and his prominent jaws clicked. 

“Sue, my dear girl," he said, “I've got the 
strategy. Are you game to play it!" 

Sue looked interested, but alarmed. 

“When does your lease expire on your apart¬ 
ment?" 

“January first." 

“Good! You're going to tell that Harry per¬ 
son and Betty that after January first you don't 
feel you can afford to continue an apartment, 
that you will have a room of your own, and Bet¬ 
ty will have to go on her own or get married." 

“Oh, I couldn't! I must look after her—she 
might do something rash. You don't know her!" 

“The dickens!" Mark made reply energetical¬ 
ly; “let Harry worry about it—or Basil, the 
simp! This thing is ridiculous! It's a graft 
on you. Will you do it?" 


Two Women 


161 


“I’ll see,” replied Sue, with a troubled look. 

“You’re too good-hearted,” admonished Mark, 
sharply. “You’re not doing her any favor by 
letting this farce continue. Betty doesn’t know 
her own mind, but Harry evidently does. He’s 
eating the cake and having it too, the grafter. 
He’ll have to show his hand if you do what I 
tell you . . . You just ask him point-blank just 
exactly when he’s going to marry Betty.” 

“You don’t know them,” complained Betty: 
“they’re always setting dates and then letting 
them slide for some reason or other.” 

* ‘Exactly. But this time they’re going to be 
forced to a decision. You set a date when Betty 
will have to get out, and then things will hap¬ 
pen.” 

“I’m afraid,” said Betty. 

“You, too?” said Mark; “I never saw such 
a mare’s nest! Brace up and act! Tell Basil to 
stop letting Betty walk over him, and ask her to 
marry him.” 

Sue laughed again. “I have! You don't 
know him. He asks her all the time and she 
says ‘shut up’, and if he doesn’t she slaps him.” 

Mark looked incredulous and disgusted. 

“Really” said Sue; “you don’t know the half 
of it. She makes appointments with him and 
never keeps them; she pokes fun at him in pub¬ 
lic and makes a monkey out of him.” 


162 


Two Women 


“She deserves to get Harry and be abused,” 
growled Mark. 

“I don’t know what to think sometimes,” she 
replied, troubledly. 

“Well, I say, whoever is to get her will have 
to step up and act,” said Mark, as they rose. 
“Don’t you go back on me now—do as I told 
you. I don’t trust you—you’re soft; I’m going 
to keep after you about this. I won’t see a 
hardworking girl like you being used.” 

And he did keep after her. The more he 
thought about it, the more indignant he became; 
and it was only when he enlisted Pauline’s coun¬ 
sel and help that he was brought to see the sheer 
humor of it. Pauline took a lively interest in 
the affair, and Mark took her to another dinner 
of the group and together they extracted the 
full flavor of the characters and the situation. 
Pauline instantly approved of the strategy fo 
break up the unfair deadlock. They got Sue at 
last to agree to act, and Sue sprang the sur¬ 
prise as promised. Betty stormed, wept and 
raged in turn; Harry frowned and looked per¬ 
turbed, while Basil made it the cue for a new 
and more hectic proposal, which was received 
and more than usual hectic scorn by Betty. She ac¬ 
cused Sue of being a cold-hearted sister, and 
threatened to take a job on the road—which she 
had always scorned (even when “broke”) be- 


Two Women 


163 


cause of the hardship to her delicate frame, 
and which, naturally, Harry had never desired, 
either. This further agitated Harry, but still he 
would not commit himself. Sue, emboldened by 
Mark “talked up” to him. 

“Aren’t you going to marry Betty!” she 
asked. 

“Of course I am,” he exploded angrily (the 
force of the explosion being of course in per¬ 
fect proportion to his unconscious bachelorish re¬ 
luctance to take the step.) 

“When!” asked Sue. 

“Why, probably next spring,” he dissimu¬ 
lated. 

“But you’ve been saying something like that 
for years.” 

“See here,” glowered Harry, “are you trying 
to push me into this thing!” 

“Oh, no,” demurely answered the Mark- 
steadied Sue, who several weeks before would 
have cowered, like Betty, before Harry’s crude 
force; “I must try to make plans, and with rents 
so terrible I simply can’t keep supporting Betty 
over her idle days. She’ll just have to make a 
home for herself.” 

“I don’t see why we can’t go on as we have 
been for a while,” weakly protested Harry, see¬ 
ing his soft snap gone a-glimering. 

“Wlell,—” and this next one of Sue’s fairly 
took his breath away—“I must see to Betty’s 


164 


Two Women 


future, and if you’ve dangled five years, you’ll 
dangle five more until she’s lost her girlhood. 
There are lots of nice men who adore her, 
but you’re always around her growling like a 
dog. If you aren’t married by Christmas, I’m 
going to tell her Uncle Jim on her and see what 
he says.” 

And Sue, chin in air in quite an unaccustomed 
pertness, marched off, leaving Harry in a first 
class quandary. 

Sue called around at Pauline’s apartment and 
reported the turn of events, and received friend¬ 
ly support in holding to her resolve. 

Harry actually waited until the moving van 
came and Sue’s furniture (all paid for by her 
own earnings) was moved, before he acted; can- 
nilv believing that Sue might not carry out her 
threat. Betty, rebellious to the last, went to a 
hotel; but Harry, no longer sure of Sister Sue’s 
watchful eye over her goings and comings, with¬ 
in ten days dragged Betty, still protesting, to 
the Little Church around the Corner. She had 
become a habit with him, and he feared her; 
knowing full well that her vacillating character, 
if she were on her own resources, would keep 
him on the rack. 

“We smoked out the fox at last, Pauline” 
telephoned Mark one day when Sue had phoned 
him the news. 


Two Women 


165 


In some way, Mark’s interest in the little 
drama had been anodyne to his wounds, if not 
also a new outlook on life. 


CHAPTER XII 


Coining down Madison Avenue late one after¬ 
noon Mark espied the quick, darting figure of 
Pauline ahead of him. He felt a warmth at his 
hearty compounded partly of his appreciation of 
her, and partly of reaction for the pall which 
once threatened to come over him through loss 
of Phyllis. 

He seized her playfully from behind. “ Hello, 
old dear!” 

“You—you dear!” Pauline’s eyes glowed, 
and her slender fingers exerted an affectionate 
pressure. “How lovely that you should join me at 
this moment! Please look !—pointing down the 
avenue from 36th Street to the Metropolitan 
Tower. “Isn’t it an aesthetic feastf Just stop 
here a moment; no, over here. Those early fall 
twilight mists and half lights, the long lane of 
buildings, and the full length of the great Tower 
and clock at the end! What a perspective! Do 
you get the magic of it? The rise here at 36th 
Street is just enough to throw the picture into 
focus; with the little humans crawling insignifi- 
166 


Two Women 


167 


cantly along the base of their towers, far greater, 
and more enduring than they!” 

Mark looked, and with Pauline’s eyes, saw 
what he had never seen before. Aesthetically ha 
was uncultivated; it was a blind side of him; but 
he was far from insensitive. His aesthetic eye¬ 
lids rose as though they were stiff, unused cur¬ 
tains, and he felt the same sensations that an 
appreciative, but uninformed person feels when 
seeing a Monet or a Van Gogh painting for the 
first time, and does not altogether grasp the 
beauty in it because his senses are not adjusted 
to seeing beauty in just such highly modern 
forms and colors. To be frank, Mark was not 
sure at all that he saw the beauty Pauline saw, 
but his quick intelligence realized intuitively that 
she was probably right, and that realms of in¬ 
terest and pleasure which he did not know were 
open sesame through her, if he could catch the 
secret. Outside of a thrill some years before on 
first seeing the New York sky-line, he had never 
given any thought to the scenic side of the city. 

“I come this way every evening, even though 
it is out of my way somewhat,” continued Paul¬ 
ine. “I love certain places in New York, Mark; 
I bitterly resent the ignorant, deprecatory way 
some of my artist friends look at New York; 
they all want to run over to Spain or France 
or England or Italy to paint peasants and old 
stone fences and villages—and they stick up 


168 


Two Women 


their noses at the thousand and one etchings that 
are crying to be done here. Only Pennell or 
some foreign artists have discovered the truth.’’ 

“You do a little painting yourself, don’t 
you?” 

“For my own amusement only,” said Pauline 
apologetically. 

“What other places do you love?” asked 
Mark, quietly. 

“Oh, lots of places—not the spectacular places 
that you might think. Down on the East Side 
—First Avenue, Delancey Street, Rivington 
Street, Mulberry Bend, Madison Square, the 
waterfront, some parts of Greenwich Village,—” 

“Let’s go to dinner and take me to some of 
these places,” interrupted Mark, impetuously. 

“Love too!” cried Pauline, striving not to 
appear too ecstatic. “If it were earlier and we 
had the afternoon free, I’d suggest we go for a 
country walk first. Would you like it!” 

“In New York?” 

“Yes, stupid! I suppose you’ve never gone 
out into the lovely country around New York!” 

“I confess, no. Never connected country walks 
with New York.” 

“Then we’ll save that for some other time!” 
cried Pauline happily. “Now, we’ll go down 
and eat at the Cafe de VEurope —” 

“But I thought you snubbed Europe?” teased 
Mark. 


Two Women 


169 


“I do; this is true America—polyglot Amer¬ 
ica. We’ll meet at least six different national¬ 
ities and hear six different languages.—” 

“And hear six different social systems ad¬ 
vocated.” 

“Exactly; also we’ll have a nicely cooked din¬ 
ner and then we’ll stalk local color and unetched 
etchings.” 

The evening was one round of delight from 
the start to the finish at Pauline’s studio. At 
the Cafe de VEurope where for novelty’s sake 
they ate their soup, in spite of the fall snap in 
the air, on the sidewalk level; and then went 
inside for the generously proportioned, appetiz¬ 
ing dishes—'they listened to a fascinating group 
of musicians, of many sizes, weights and degrees 
of hirsute adornment, discuss vehemently how 
Caruso had managed his music. An overbear¬ 
ing fellow with a prominent Adam’s apple and 
bushy eyebrows insisted amid much protest that 
Caruso knew not one note from the other: that 
he memorized his role by listening to an assist¬ 
ant who sang the role so that Caruso could learn 
to follow him “by ear.” The discussion waxed 
hot, in true Continental sidewalk cafe fashion; 
the majority of the musicians at the table being 
adoring admirers of the great singer and in¬ 
dignantly spurning the suggestion that Caruso 
perfected his great roles in so humiliating a 
musical fashion. Explosive remarks in at least 


170 


Two Women 


four languages, emanated from head-shapes pro¬ 
claiming as many national origins. Some of the 
diners were there with their women, including 
occasionally a strange and exotic type of girl 
indigent only to such a Babel as New York, 
where the external habiliments of a flapper 
cover sometimes the almost harem-like flower of 
an Orient transplanted to Second Avenue, pro¬ 
ducing a strange mixture of the tomboy and 
the ultra-shy and sheltered, eastern, veiled lady. 

Finishing, Mark and Pauline strayed through 
a maze of streets filled with pushcarts, news¬ 
boys, Jewish patriarchs, up-to-the-minute girls 
in silk stockings, emanating from dirt-smudged 
apartment entrances; shawle,d, pregnant women 
and toothless, old crones, dirty children and 
artisans. Mark was at first irritated at what 
seemed like Pauline’s inattention to his con¬ 
versation, but, being in a mood to follow her 
lead, he forgave her. 

“Quick, Mark,—see the girl who just passed,” 
Pauline would say; “she came out of a dingy 
apartment door, just behind us, and her black- 
shawled, foreign looking mother was scolding 
her excitedly. She just tossed her bobbed hair 
and went off. Look at her—white baronet silk 
skirt, silk stockings, a silk sweater and a trim 
little lid! If she were walking on Fifth Avenue 
you wouldn’t for a moment suspect she lived 
here; clothes, walk and air all would indicate 


Two Women 


171 


she comes from a well-to-do home uptown. Even 
her face doesn’t look foreign. Probably she’s 
changed her name at her office where she stenogs, 
from Reba Leschitsky to Rita Lennon or some¬ 
thing like that; and she simply won’t stay in 
the house evenings, and much prefers to eat 
consomme instead of her mother’s wholesome 
borscht; patties instead of gefultefish. She 
never brings her beau home; he leaves her at 
the subway station, arid she wanders home ap¬ 
parently alone at eleven, twelve and one o’clock, 
which drives her mother more or less distracted. 
She—” 

“Good Heavens!” interrupted Mark, quizzi¬ 
cally, “do you know this girl?” 

“She won’t observe the Jewish holidays,” 
continued Pauline, undaunted; “except to stay 
discontentedly at home on one or two occasions 
a year, to avoid being quite unbearably cruel 
to her orthodox parents, who are in mortal 
fear she’ll marry a ‘Gentile,’ which, in fact, she 
has once or twice come near to doing. She spends 
practically all her earnings on her clothes, has 
an eclair and ice cream soda for lunch—but 
Mark, look at that group coming toward us!”— 

Four men of almost diametrically opposed 
types—no doubt fast friends,—advanced, each 
with a gait and a personality all peculiarly his 
own. Red-haired, short and fat, tall and slouch¬ 
ing, ascetic and lover of fleshpots—all and more 
were compressed in their four figures. 


172 


Two Women 


“Talk about the Thackeranian types of old 
London; or characters from Dickens!” ex¬ 
claimed Pauline. “Ob, catch their lines Mark! 
Get the genial curves of Mr. Fat; the staccato, 
vertical lines of Mr. Big with the newspaper 
sticking out of his pocket to accentuate them; 
the daring angles of Mr. Redhead, which bristle 
off from his nose, his chin, his elbows and his 
feet. I wish I were a Glackens and had a sketch 
book!” 

At Delancey Street the distant lights of the 
great Williamsburg bridge, the park space in 
the middle of the street, the myriad shops and 
astounding variety of types and characters in 
endless richness and profusion were next seen, 
again with the help of Pauline’s eyes for the 
colors, the lines and the stories of the human 
scene. By this time Mark had become more 
able to discover and select, unaided, the ma¬ 
terial for composition of a picture in the scene 
before him. It was a most arresting new sen¬ 
sation which probed deeply into his spirit, for 
he sensed that heretofore he had been like a 
blindfolded man in a great art gallery. Although 
he had endlessly described life, he had made 
practical, obvious, economic deductions, in the 
main, from what he had seen. The point of 
view of sheer colors, line, mass and human char¬ 
acter had touched him before only lightly. He 
had had a journalist’s alert detachment from the 


Two Women 


173 


scene about him, but not until tonight also the 
artist’s appreciation of the sensory and the 
spiritual. He had studied life under the search¬ 
light, but not under the half-lights; under white 
but not under color rays. 

After gayly patronizing some of the myriad 
pushcarts, walking part-way across the bridge, 
with its detached, tower-like view of Manhat¬ 
tan’s majestic night aspect, they returned to 
Pauline’s studio to dispel the chill of the winds 
of the bridge walk with a cup of tea. 

When the brew was ready to drink and Mark 
had made himself thoroughly comfortable, he 
exclaimed: 66 Pauline, I have a feeling that I’m 
now gearing myself to a new speed, a new 
plane. I’ve felt it for weeks; I feel it tremen¬ 
dously tonight.” He looked at her with an 
intentness which was disconcerting. Something 
intuitive flashed her a signal; Pauline was un¬ 
canny in this respect. 

* ‘That’s good,” replied Pauline lightly, bust¬ 
ling about a plate of biscuits. “Ever onward, 
as the copybooks say.” And she deliberately 
matched against his serious mood, banter and 
small talk, and sent him home early. She did 
not sleep for many hours after he left. 

A w T eek later they went for a country walk 
up in Westchester County, among little hills 
and valleys, by-lanes and wood-paths—with all of 
which Pauline was entirely familiar. She was 


174 


Two Women 


another revelation, personally, to Mark, in her 
knickers and sturdy hiking capacity and her 
radiating quality, and more than ever sharply 
accentuated in her simpler background of coun¬ 
try and sky. Again she was—quite unconsciously 
—a teacher of new values to Mark. As he 
walked along the road he would talk vigorously 
of some matter, looking scarcely to the right 
or left. 

“You absurd boy!” Pauline would suddenly 
exclaim; “aren’t you seeing that wonderful 
clump of birches on the slope of the hill and 
that series of hilltops through the gap over 
there? Turn your head!” 

And Mark, not at all irritably now, would 
turn and see and resume his argument later— 
if what he saw did not altogether drive argu¬ 
ment from his head! 

“When we’re walking in the country, ideas 
must be valet to the scenery!” Pauline had 
gayly proclaimed, after one or two such inter¬ 
ruptions. And without indulging in sentiment¬ 
alizing over nature, she showed him how and 
where to see beauty in the country. This was 
doubly strange and novel to Mark, for he had 
been a country boy! But like most natives of 
the country he had regarded the trees and the 
landscape in precisely the same way he had 
regarded fences and weeds—as literal facts of 
no emotional tone-values. 


Two Women 


175 


After the first country walk, with the country 
at its best, in antnmn colors and clear sunlight, 
he became an enthusiast. He insisted on several 
hikes a week, and no longer had to be prompted 
to appreciate the frequent pictures they en¬ 
countered. He stopped his own conversation 
when new shapes of beauty swam into their 
horizon and he developed enthusiasm for seeing 
favorite spots in the light of different weathers 
and points of vantage. He even made Pauline 
promise to take a walk after the first snow 
should fall. 

“I’m so glad you like this sort of thing,” 
Pauline said, squeezing his hand quite shame¬ 
lessly. “So many people don’t and can’t even 
pretend to, while others pretend and sentiment¬ 
alize; the ‘ain’t nature wonderful’ kind, and 
yet can find only a few seconds at most to just 
look; and invariably try to take walks in the 
country—if they’re cajoled into doing it at 
all—wearing French heels!” 

“I’m going to have a place in the country,” 
commented Mark, his jaw setting in its familiar 
manner, his tone also registering deep-lying 
resolve. “I’ve been a dunce about the country 
—and a lot of other things. I see this now ... 
I’ve had ‘New Yorkitis’ for instance, and didn’t 
even know my New York. I believe I was be¬ 
ginning to hate it.” 

Pauline laughed. “I suppose it’s as Leslie 


176 


Two Women 


Stephen said:—‘for Balzac Paris is hell; but 
then hell is the only place to live in!’ ” 


CHAPTER XII 


They were dining at the Pepper Pot, a 
Greenwich Village basement cavern where pert, 
bobbed-haired misses wormed their way among 
diners incredibly wedged together, at tiny tables 
bearing candlesticks with no other candleholders 
than the soiled drippings of a hundred previous 
candles; and where an obliging diner thumped 
the well-scratched piano as the spirit moved him. 

Just why Mark and Pauline dined there is 
probably the same true explanation of why 
many New Yorkers, whether or not engaged in 
the arts, dine at the many small Village res¬ 
taurants. Not because of a desire to be seen 
in the haunts of Bohemia ; not because it gives 
them a sight-seeing thrill, or because it is sup¬ 
posed to be the thing to do. It is largely because of 
ennui. Eating in New York restaurants, in all 
but the Village restaurants, is more of a busi¬ 
ness that an art. The thousands upon thousands 
of restaurants,—whether of high or low degree, 
it matters not—are ridiculously alike. There are 
to be sure, groups widely differing; but they 
177 


178 


Two Women 


differ only in groups, not individually; and in 
the food scarcely at all. The restaurants within 
each group are almost a photographic reproduc¬ 
tion of the other restaurants in that group; the 
same coloring; the same Danish pastry on 
wooden stands in the window, the same white 
tile and metal ceiling; the same rococco grill 
work; the very same tableware. There are 
astonishingly few restaurants priding themselves 
on special dishes; no sense of personal relation¬ 
ship either to the restauranteurs or the restaur¬ 
ant. 

Those who must dine in a restaurant every 
day and who have capacity and need for variety, 
are therefore desperately bored; and to be bored 
with one’s food and one’s dining surroundings 
is a psychological misfortune. The Village res¬ 
taurants offer a tolerable relief, purely from the 
angle of variety and personality. The food is 
not always good and the personality is some¬ 
times distinctly manufactured; but it usually has 
at least the earmarks or the rudiments of an 
individuality. It has a flavor and a person¬ 
ableness which warms instead of chills. It does 
for the lone individual or the lone couple what 
the big round dining table in a man’s club does 
for the lone diner—it projects him into the 
circle of group feeling and responsive relation 
to environment. In short, the relish of increas¬ 
ing numbers of people for the little Village 


Two Women 


179 


eating places indicates that they offer a spirit 
that is attractive; many and sundry kinds of 
spirit, not always interesting—hut still, a spirit. 
And spirit is the missing quality in the Amer¬ 
ican restaurant. No doubt out of the small ex¬ 
periments of the Village may arise a new type 
of restauranteur who will know these things of 
the spirit and their relation to dining as well 
as he knows his cashier systems. 

Mark, finished with a satisfying dinner, most 
genially lightened by the banter they now easily 
and gracefully were accustomed to, was watch¬ 
ing the flickering candles. Perhaps they werq 
the link of memory—if he needed any—with 
Phyllis’ special passion for candles, for his 
thoughts turned to her. 

“How is Phyllis doing?” he asked. Not for 
several months had he mentioned her to Pauline. 

“I should have told you,” she replied, slowly. 
“Phyllis is no longer with us.” 

Mark swallowed, and moved on his chair. 
“Just why?” he asked, with a level stare. 

“That unmarried mother campaign came an 
awful cropper, and its failure, together with— 
you know—the steady decline of advertising 
every publication has had, brought about a cut 
in the staff.” 

“Why haven’t you told me this before?” 
asked Mark coldly. 

Pauline’s sensitive lips quavered. “You—you 


180 


Two Women 


hadn’t asked about her and I thought yon didn’t 
care to talk to me about her.” 

Mark merely stared in reply. 

“Please don’t look at me in that queer way; 
it’s just like you used to look before you learned 
to play more and stopped that terrible, over- 
serious stare you had.” 

“What is she doing now?” continued Mark 
without change of tone. 

“Nothing—she’s at home.” 

“Upset about it?” 

“No-o—well, of course she was upset. But 
she says ... oh, I don’t know how to say it, 
Mark. She’s ... she’s . . .. 

“Say it!” commanded Mark with dark ex¬ 
plosiveness. 

“She’s going to be a mother,” almost whis¬ 
pered Pauline, with a scared look in her face. 

Mark’s jaws ground upon each other with a 
long repeating motion like ice-floes ruthlessly 
meshing; and his eyes narrowed as he looked 
away into the dim doorway. He said nothing 
for several minutes and then lit a cigarette; 
but his color was visibly higher. 

“Tell me about the flivver of that editorial 
campaign,” he said, with a sportsmanlike effort 
to be casual. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Pauline, 
vaguely, her own thoughts and feelings in no 
position to calmly narrate. “One day Mr. War- 


Two Women 


181 


wick came into the office looking very grave. 
The issne had been out on the newsstands three 
weeks, and we were getting ready to shoot 
another broadside in the next issue. We were 
actually ‘making up’ the forms just then. ‘Girls’ 
he said, ‘hold up the stuff—we’ll have to have 
a, meeting this afternoon about the whole thing.’ 
And then the circulation manager showed us 
bunches of indignant letters and cancellations 
—from women’s club members, clergymen, pro¬ 
minent women and readers. The tale was always 
the same— they said young girls were corrupted 
by such material; and we were encouraging im¬ 
morality.” 

“Not a word about the injustice to the child, 
of course,” commented Mark. 

“No, of course not—just the regular Puritan 
howl. We were all so disillusioned. No kind 
words for the articles! But when he got 
through, the advertising manager read a letter 
from a big toothpaste advertiser protesting that 
such material was not consistent with the 
editorial standards they looked for in publica¬ 
tions to advertise in.” 

“Swung the advertising club, eh?” 

“Do them justice—they didn’t cancel their 
advertising. They just let us know that they 
selected periodicals to advertise in according to 
how the editorial standards suited their ideas 
of the readers they aimed to reach, and they 
were surprised to see us print these articles. 


182 


Two Women 


“So we waited until the last press day, study¬ 
ing the mails. But the number of letters grew 
every day, and-” 

“Not one letter of commendation?” asked 
Mark, incredulously. 

“Well, perhaps I’m exaggerating. We did 
get some—but they were snowed under by the 
other kind.” 

“Well, how did Phyllis take it?” 

“She went about dazed and quiet. The wo¬ 
men’s clubs’ help in the campaign didn’t ma¬ 
terialize; a number of women wrote sneering 
letters about Mrs. Bateman Thomas whose in¬ 
terview with Phyllis we had all praised. They 
called her a cigarette-smoking society idler, and 
worse. It was a mess, and the circulation man¬ 
ager openly said it was a mistake to get her into 
the paper. Well, the result was we hastily 
‘canned’ the whole thing, and then Phyllis and 
another staff member were let go. It’s been a 
terrible wet blanket on us all—although, of 
course, as Fiction Editor, I wasn’t much af¬ 
fected; in fact they are counting on me now to 
make up lost circulation!” 

“Is—has—when does Phyllis expect her 
child?” asked Mark, suddenly. 

“About March I believe,” replied Pauline. 
Mark seemed in a mood of bewilderment, and 
pity and envy and other emotions rode through 
Pauline’s heart as she watched him. 


Two Women 


183 


Throughout the Philadelphia Orchestra Con¬ 
cert to which they went—to be treated at Paul¬ 
ine’s suggestion with a Rimsky-Korsakoff pro¬ 
gram—Mark sat abstractedly, and as Pauline 
knew, not wholly won by the plaintive melody of 
“ Scheherezade.” 

Pauline stopped at her door, expecting him to 
go. 

“I’m coming up,” he said, peremptorily. 

“Indeed!” airly replied Pauline, “You are 
very Ludendorffish tonight, aren’t you?” But 
her persiflage hid a note of alarm. 

“Yes, precisely,” said Mark. “So goose- 
step it, little colonel!” 

They were hardly indoors and their wraps off 
when Mark came up to Pauline, grasped her 
arms behind their elbows, saying: 

“Pauline, my dear girl, I want to marry you! 
Please say yes!” 

Pauline broke away, whirled about the room 
like a pirouetting Columbine in a moon garden, 
emitting unnatural, elfish gusts of laughter, 
laughter which was conglomerately shot through 
with joy, pain, bitterness and glee. 

Mark stepped after her firmly. “I want an 
answer.” 

“Obvious, obvious, obvious man!” she ex¬ 
claimed, stopping half way across the room. 

i“I truly do want to marry you,” pursued 
Mark. “You’re—you’re wonderful and ador- 


184 


Two Women 


able. You’ve come to mean a very great deal 
to me.” Mark’s face was a cubist pattern of 
conflicting emotions. 

Pauline looked at him with a gnomic wisdom 
shining out of her eyes and a great tenderness. 

“No,” she said rather solemnly. “I can’t 
marry you, Mark. You-” 

“Why not!” shot forth Mark, cyclonic fury 
seeming to blaze in his eyes; a protective fury 
arising from suffering at this second denial by 
fate of what he desired. 

“Not because I don’t love you,” she answered 
gently, in striking contrast to his tone. “I do 
love you, Mark; I have for a long time.” Paul¬ 
ine’s breath here began to trouble her, and 
Mark came to her quickly and put his arms 
about her and murmured something tender. 

But she pushed him away. “Sit down, Mark. 
This particular little love scene”—said the fic¬ 
tion editor of the Mirror —“had best be enacted 
rather calmly in chairs by a fireside to be plaus¬ 
ible.” She recovered her equilibrium and her 
humor by moving about lighting a fire in the 
honest-to-goodness fireplace her room boasted. 

Mark obeyed, a trifle sullenly. Pauline curled 
tailor-fashion into a large leathern arm chair, and 
leaned over the arm toward Mark. 

“Don’t be cross if I prefer to talk this way, 
Mark. Being a man, you don’t seem quite to 
realize the situation.” 


Two Women 


185 


“Oh yes, I do,” interrupted Mark, still smart¬ 
ing under a primitive anger and futility. “I 
know, yon think I’m rebounding from Phyllis, 
perhaps attempting a consolation manage. It 
isn’t altogether true. I do love Phyllis, as you 
know. I don’t expect ever to get quite over it— 
that’s no secret. But there’s a Chinese wall, a 
mile high, between us, and she’s quite evidently 
not in love with me. And you have been more 
wonderful in my life than I ever conceived pos¬ 
sible. You are growing more and more dear 
to me all the time. You elfish little minx— 
must I stay over here?” 

“Yes, you must, Mark,” replied Pauline. 
“You may not understand me in what I’m going 
to say, but I’ve got to say it all the same. I 
suppose most girls who love a man that has loved 
another girl unsuccessfully and are then asked as 
second choices, would marry him. They probably 
would be quite right; perhaps I might too, if 
you were not you!” 

“What da you mean?” 

“Well, you’re—you’re a very different man 
from most—no doubt that’s why I love you. 
You are intransiyient; you don’t know how to 
let anything go. You simply can’t quit; you—” 

“I don’t get you.” 

“Probably not,” laughed Pauline. “I’ll pnt 
it in a man’s language; you don’t know when 
you’re licked; you never haul down your flag.” 


186 


Two Women 


“Just how does all this apply?” Mark’s brow 
was still knit. 

“Very well, old bear, I’ll make the application 
direct. You’re in love with Phyllis. It’s the 
great love of your life. It’s your challenge to 
life, fate and the elements. (You know love is 
a real man’s big adventure.) Phyllis not only 
flatly says she doesn’t love you, but she hops 
off and marries and interposes barriers between 
you that make even social contact impossible. 
But you—” Pauline laughed an odd little laugh 
—“The God’s truth is, you’ve just begun to 
fight ... Do you remember a talk we had right in 
this room one night? It was uncanny. It made 
the chills run down my back to hear you talk. 
You were like some inexorable force which was 
fated to go on. It was—spooky.” 

“But that was just afterward,” protested 
Mark. 

“So I could easily deceive myself into be¬ 
lieving, if—if I weren’t fiction editor of the 
Mirror! You—we are a drama to which in¬ 
vented solutions cannot be fitted!” 

“But she’s married, is to have a child, and is 
not a bit in love with me!” Mark’s voice car¬ 
ried a suggestion of exquisite pain which did 
not escape Pauline. 

“Yes, Mark dear, but you see, the terrible 
thing is that while your conscious self realizes 
the logic of despair, your unconscious self, the 


Two Women 


187 


big, controlling part of yon, admits nothing of 
the kind. It is still as set on Phyllis as ever. 
It’s what Gregory Eaton calls ‘an eidolon of 
the will!’ ” 

“Yes, replied Mark, bitterly. “I suppose it’s 
like Professor Babbitt’s remark about the ideal¬ 
ist, that so often what he wants is something 
not merely does not exist, but that cannot ex¬ 
ist !” 

“That’s your head speaking,” said Pauline. 
“I wish I could believe it was accepted by you. 
through and through. But, Mark, I can’t! Phyl¬ 
lis does exist for you, and only death could take 
her out of the arenav I look at you, and I’m 
almost frightened; there’s something strange in 
there behind your eyes that I know would come 
out and brutally murder me if I married you 
and depended on you to love me to the full.” 

“It yould wear away,” pleaded Mark. 

“Not if we married,” answered Pauline. “The 
fact of being tied to me would make the uncon¬ 
scious part of you hate me as Phyllis’ rival. I 
would be a barrier, a stop-gap, a consolation, 
hated for my inadequacy. It would grow worse 
with the years.” 

“Men don’t waste and die for love—you know 
that, Miss Fiction Editor,” protested Mark, 
cynically. “I’ll do what many another man has 
done—forget one woman and marry another 
and be happy ever after.” 


188 


Two Women 


“It's not quite as story-bookish, as all that,” 
insisted Pauline. “I have learned to distinguish 
between truth and the mechanical inventions of 
fiction. More than that, I am familiar with 
modern psychology.’’ 

“But damn it, Pauline, I want you!” ex¬ 
claimed Mark, perversely. 

“I notice you don’t say, ‘I love you,’ ” smiled 
Pauline, a little wistfully; but as Mark opened 
his lips to speak, she hastened on. “Don’t mis¬ 
understand me. I don’t want you to tell me 
you love me, because I know you love Phyllis; 
yet at the same time I don’t find it hard to 
take you at your word, that you care for me.” 

“I knew you would understand, Pauline.” 
Mark replied with grateful relief. “A man is 
in a hard position in such circumstances— 
You’re such a wonderful understander.—I’m 
going to confess some innermost thoughts, my 
dear. I have a ridiculous sensation of wanting 
like the dickens to have Phyllis be like you, and 
you to be like Phyllis; I want to mix you into 
one!” 

Pauline pulled a wry face. “Thanks for the 
compliment, if it is one.” 

“But Pauline dear—I want you to marry 
me!” Mark stirred tensely in his chair. 

Pauline did not reply for a few moments. 
Suddenly she rose and stirred the fire, then 
threw back her head and inhaled deeply, emo¬ 
tion being very near the surface. “I won’t, I 


Two Women 


189 


won’t!” she cried, pounding the thick leather 
headrest of her chair with clenched fist. “Oh, 
I mnst tell you that I do want to, Mark—more 
than anything in the world; hut . . . Oh, I wish 
I weren’t a fiction editor, or anything but a—a 
milkmaid!” She kept back her tears with a 
smile. 

“But I’m not!” she became unnaturally calm. 
“I’m a very sophisticated woman. I need no 
one’s shelter, I need no one’s standards. I feel 
fully master of my life. I’m able to choose and 
hold my own moral standards, and meet events 
squarely.” 

“I don’t exactly follow you,” said Mark, 
gently. 

“You wouldn’t!” smiled back Pauline, pertly. 
“I suppose I’m now going to see you puzzled 
and pained. I’m going to suggest,* Mark, dear, 
that—that we do not marry.” Her voice be¬ 
came rather faint. “That we—for a few years, 
at least—live as closely together as we choose. 
It may be that you will change in heart, but I 
want you to know that I do not expect or look 
for it! As a technical expert in life, I don’t 
believe you will change; but then I can see no 
hope of Phyllis for you; so this, then, is my 
compromise with life. I take you ‘as is’!” 
Pauline laughed a little tensely. “Everybody’s 
life, if they confessed honestly, is a compromise, 
and I’ll have mine this way. I won’t have you 


190 


Two Women 


bound to me with a public knot—it is far too 
much of a tragic experiment under the circum¬ 
stances.’ ’ 

Mark rose. His eyelids blinked rapidly and 
his gaze fixed itself on her with great intensity 
while his lips moved inarticulately. 

“I didn’t mean anything but marrying you 
for love, Pauline,” he said, much disturbed in 
spirit. 

“I know you didn’t,” Pauline replied reas¬ 
suringly, coming up to him and putting her 
hand on his arm. “I haven’t accused you of 
anything, dear. But I am saying that I be¬ 
lieve that I am wiser than you in matters of 
love. I want you, but I won’t marry you.” 

Marks face was again a complicated chart 
of feeling. He sat down in a frankly crumpled 
manner. “I’m the sport of fate!” he said 
bitterly—but even as he said it he appeared 
ripe for tears. “A man has to be made of 
iron to stand being refused in succession by 
two women who are dear to him,” he said, 
weakly. 

“You dear boy!” exclaimed Pauline coming 
to his chair and laying her hand on his hair. 
“I suppose you do think I’ve ‘turned you down’! 
It would be a mannish vanity to look at it that 
way!” 

“But haven’t you said you wouldn’t marry 
me?” blurted out Mark. 


Two Women 


191 


Pauline’s eyes widened and her face acquired 
a further shade of pallor. “Marh—I don’t be¬ 
lieve you’ve understood me at all! It’s been 
hard enough to try to tell you. Who was it 
who said that women were far more primitive 
than men? . . . Mark, dear, I’m going to plot out 
a specific program for us, then maybe you’ll 
understand. We forget the idea of marriage— 
put the matter on the shelf for a couple of 
years. But we agree to be each other’s. We 
see just as much of each other as we like, or 
as little. This is your home as well as mine; 
you keep yours if you like—let’s see if there’s 
anything in this Fanny Hurst, Havelock Ellis 
idea. We can plan all sorts of varieties of to¬ 
getherness, Mark, don’t you see it? We’ll have 
such delicious impromptu dinners here, long 
Sundays, perhaps—even—possibly—breakfasts! 
We’ll-!” 

Marks face had been expressionless. He rose 
at this point and sat on the arm of her chair 
and gave her a long light hug, her head smug¬ 
gled under his shoulder. “Just to interject 
right here,” he said, “because I couldn’t hold it 
any longer—you’re a perfectly marvellous little 
woman, and if you think I’m so thick-skulled,-— 
now that I see your point of view,—as not to 
realize the spirit and spunk that’s behind it, 
well, you’re wrong. I’ll tell you flatly, I’ll not 
decide any such thing as this tonight—it’s too 


192 


Two Women 


serious for you. And besides it’s a little heaven 
just to sit here and feel you really love me!” 

During the next several weeks a transforma¬ 
tion seemed to come over Mark. Like a man 
famished for affection and comradship he en¬ 
gulfed Pauline in tenderness, talk, consideration, 
and boyish glee. One Saturday evening after 
a masquerade at Hannah McAvoy’s at which* 
Phyllis and Owen were present, exchanging but 
a few formalities with him—he escorted Pauline 
home and came up-stairs with her to carry her 
grip containing her costume. Without waiting 
to switch on the light, Pauline touched a match 
to the arranged kindlings in the fireplace, and 
the room was quickly flooded with eerie, dancing 
lights. He drew her onto the big arm of the 
chair and held her as they watched the fire for 
a long time. Mark was abstracted, and Pauline 
was in the quiet mood which naturally follows 
a long and lively evening. 

Mark stirred after an interval. “Am I lean¬ 
ing too heavily?” asked Pauline. 

Mark laughed a full-throated laugh and held 
her tightly. “You were so featherly light,” he 
said, kissing her ear, “that I wondered if you 
were there at all. But—it’s a terrible hour. I 
suppose I must be hopping along.” 

“And I had bought a whole Casaba Melon to 
eat when we arrived. Is it too late to have it?” 

Mark chuckled. “It’s too early,” he said 
tickling her nose. 


Two Women 


193 


“Oh! so yon want it for breakfast, Pierrot!” 
replied Panline archly. 

“Yes, Columbine,” Mark said, taking a very 
full breath, after a strained moment. 


CHAPTER XIV 


The long shadows of an early winter twilight 
were darkening Phyllis’ living room, and giving 
it a sombre fnnereal look which she had come 
particularly to hate in the past few months since 
she had been at home. She had never, since 
young girlhood, been shut up in the house, 
especially not alone, at this hour; she had 
always been at school or at work. Now she 
found it affecting her spirits in quite an absurd 
way—akin almost to a kind of terror. A vague 
sense of being entombed would creep over her 
at these hours. She heard the distant roar of 
traffic and the muffled sounds from nearby apart¬ 
ments with an inescapable and even a growing 
suggestion of being walled in. 

The day would, as a rule, start with some 
brightness, for in the morning the eastern sun 
slanted generously into the room, and her cold 
morning shower “set her up” unfailingly. Then 
she would have a round of household duties, at¬ 
tacking them with cheer. The speed with which 
the morning hours passed, and the constant find- 
194 


Two Women 


195 


mg of new house-wifely duties usually brought 
the first irritation of the day. Weeks and months 
of systemizing apparently brought no diminu¬ 
tion of the work that her sensitive personality 
demanded in order to make agreeable her dom¬ 
estic surroundings. The house demanded at¬ 
tention more imperiously now that she was at 
home than when she was working. At cleaning 
alone she spent many hours and discovered to 
her own grim amusement, that the seeds latent 
of a fussy housewife in her were unquestionably 
sprouting. She would seat herself at her type¬ 
writer at 2 or 3 o’clock in the afternoon, with 
a sigh of satisfied expectation. Words then not 
coming readily, she would gaze about the narrow 
confines of her domicile, and shortly observe 
that the picture mouldings were scandalously 
dusty. Or gazing through the open doorway into 
the bedroom she would notice an equally pec¬ 
cable condition of the floor under the bed; and 
she particularly hated the special kind of thick, 
woolly dust which there accumulated so quickly. 
Up she would rise, and an hour was gone before 
she returned again. It was not surprising then, 
that her labors on a sober article she had con¬ 
ceived, were stretched thinly over many weeks, 
while it still remained but half done. The petty 
interruptions were another separate set of ob¬ 
stacles; the visits of ice man, gas inspectors, 
package deliveries, janitors, laundries and that 


196 


Two Women 


entire queer queue of small tradesmen of whom 
the housewife is the petty sergeant and drill mas¬ 
ter the livelong day, to the obfuscation of most 
men’s understanding. 

Again there were the emotional reactions, a 
separate group of daily hurdles, by no means 
minor in character. As a day would go by with 
little or nothing accomplished at the typewriter. 
Phyllis would feel a depression, a fear and an ir¬ 
ritation which would make the day increasingly 
leaden and gray. Then would come the late 
afternoon shadows like palls to bury the unre¬ 
alized hopes of the day, and sometimes the pres¬ 
sure was unbearable. She would go out. But 
even the streets and the towers of New York 
looked to her distant and preoccupied. They 
were teeming with life, while she seemed strav 
and aimless. Worst of all were the teeming 
crowds, mainly of women out shopping, and 
these were a double-edged affront to her. 
First, she felt repelled at the idea that she now 
was one of the colorless, innumerable army of 
women who are the valets of the home, with the 
petty responsibilities of a chambermaid; and 
second, she was incensed at the mass formation 
of these women in store and street and vehicle, 
resulting in squeezings, jostlings and constant 
loss of the dignity and aloofness which she 
was desperately holding on to as a shield and a 
buckler against her sense of defeat. 


Two Women 


197 


The weeks wore away with so little manu¬ 
script to show for them that she reviled herself 
cynically for writing less in two months when 
she had no office duties than she had in a week 
when she was working. There was an over¬ 
mastering fatality, apparently, in working alone 
in the still privacy of her home. Everything 
conspired to defeat, but no force conspired to 
help her. 

The advent of a child she now increasingly 
looked forward to with apprehension. After the 
first muddled feeling of terror, surprise, dismay, 
sentimentality, and foreboding, she had rallied 
after the manner of woman acquainted with her 
destiny, and had resolved to speed up her work; 
but the speed was not forthcoming, whereas The 
Day clicked off its coming inexorably on the clock. 
What possible progress in writing or at any 
labor but household labor could she look forward 
to, once the baby came! The idea haunted her, 
dismayed her and cracked some of her verv 
foundation stones of self-confidence and hope. 
She would catch herself slackening her interest 
in affairs, catch herself even unconsciously pre¬ 
ferring to take a long leisurely bath or making 
a lemon meringue pie to working on the type¬ 
writer, and trusting constantly to the morrow 
for literary work; and then she would despise 
herself and her fate with a blind hatred and an 
outcry against marriage, motherhood, society, or 


198 


Two Women 


herself. She would find clippings, letters, photo¬ 
graphs bringing back the spirit and the verve 
of the days when she was editing the Arcadian, 
and her heart would seem to burst with the pain 
of it. 

Long since had she learned that Jimmy could 
not enter into this sanctum. He was gaining 
weight and was perfectly satisfied with his life. 
He was affectionate, often playful, in his mild, 
soft way, had no desires whatever except to be 
liked and to enjoy the quiet of their apartment, 
reading while in his purple dressing-gown and 
slippers (his reading consisting endlessly of 
history, de Maupaussant, Balzac and The Detec¬ 
tive Story Magazine). Once or twice a week 
he would bring work home. At eleven, however, 
he was invariably sleepy, and whatever she might 
be doing, would then tease Phyllis to retire also, 
and challenge her to a pillow fight or a romp, 
no doubt to provide some movement for his 
flabby muscles. It was at such times, clad in silk 
pajamas of a light blue and fresh and neat as 
a boy just out of his mother’s meticulous hands, 
that Phyllis liked him best. He presented to 
her eyes just the picture which a woman often 
carries of a satisfying male creature; good sta¬ 
ture, color, grace and personal daintiness, a 
simple, manageable boy with an adoring look and 
a charming smile. Next to this, she liked him 
best as she obsequiously flecked dust off his coat, 


Two Women 


199 


when, well groomed after an hour in the bath¬ 
room, he was ready to depart for work in the 
morning. She liked to look at him then and tell 
herself that he was hers. 

In an odd way, expressive of her still pre¬ 
dominant coldness and aloofness, Phyllis felt no 
sense of lack in him. Indeed she was thoroughly 
fond of him. He was part of the picture, like 
the sofa or the curtains that she liked, that she 
herself carefully selected. She felt warm toward 
him, but psychically it did not any longer even 
occur to her to lean upon him. He had from 
the start simply failed to make response to any 
of her slight gestures of leaning, and Phyllis had 
no longer expected it. He was promptly “at 
sea” if she called upon him for literary advice, 
beyond expressing a mere lay opinion,—which 
like all lay opinion, was rather pointless and 
useless because it was individual and idiosyn¬ 
cratic and not detached. 

Of passion Phyllis as yet knew nothing. She 
was frankly somewhat bored—even sometimes 
annoyed—by sexual love, and only very infre¬ 
quently did it have even a moment’s lift of 
wings for her. Jimmy was playful rather than 
passionate by nature himself, and Phyllis auto¬ 
cratically ruled his every step in love, thus 
sparing herself all undesired attention, thanks 
to his perfect obedience, which she sentimentally 
counted as a highly spiritual chivalry on his 


200 


Two Women 


part. She was adept by this time in the tech¬ 
nique of diplomatic marital coldness; she knew 
well the little signs by which Jimmy uncon¬ 
sciously augured forth his desires, and with 
apparent ignorance and innocence Phyllis at 
such times elected suddenly to wash her hair* 
and stay for a long, long time in the bath room 
until Morpheus had captured Jimmy and over¬ 
whelmed his intentions. Or there would appear 
betimes little half-serious groans, aches and 
pains, or an article to write late at night, or 
any one of a dozen artifices which would frust¬ 
rate the none too imperious call of Eros in Jim¬ 
my. By these means and many others, including 
downright refusals and distastes, Phyllis thinned 
the bond of passion to a gossamer thread and 
kept it there—taking care, at the same time, not 
to let it snap entirely. 

There took place, thus, in Phyllis, a gradual 
dilution and thinning out of desires and inten¬ 
sities of every sort—physical and mental. Her 
bearing was more staid, her mind less produc¬ 
tive and creative, her conversation more per¬ 
sonal and gossipy, more reflective of current 
printed matter rather than of ideas hot from 
the cauldron of contacts with life and lively 
fermentation of original thought. 

It was at this point that Phyllis, vaguely but 
not accurately sensing her situation, came to a 
realization as never before that she had been 


Two Women 


201 


careless of her friends; that the friends she had 
had in such prolixity in the Arcadian days had 
been unappreciated and neglected. Having a 
thin strain of snobbery in her still, Phyllis strove 
first to renew contact with Mrs. F. Hollister 
Brown, with Professor Whitcomb, Paul D’Arcy, 
Lester Mayer, Mrs. Bateman Thomas and others. 
But, although she strained the truth slightly 
in inventing explanations of her invitations, she 
was unsuccessful, for a variety of apparently 
inconsequential reasons, in “bagging’’ any so¬ 
cial game, although Mrs. Thomas did write her 
in return to “drop in some Sunday afternoon 
after four.” On the second afternoon of these 
fruitless efforts Phyllis was frankly tearful and 
in a burst of energy went down almost the en¬ 
tire line of names in her address book. She, 
however, purposely omitted Gregory Eaton; she 
recoiled with fear at what Gregory would say of 
her now; nor had she any particular relish for 
his philosophical brand of talk. She desired 
plain human warmth, and she finally compelled 
Estelle Cooper to come over and talk to her 
to chase those unendurable ghostly late after¬ 
noon shadows. 

Several weeks later Pauline and Mark, whom 
Phyllis had noticed were habitually in each 
other’s company, came in response to Phyllis’ 
invitation. Mark was plainly doubtful about ac¬ 
cepting the invitation, but Pauline prevailed 
upon him to go. 


202 


Two Women 


From the moment they entered Phyllis ’ door 
until they left it seemed to her that great wide 
doors had swung in upon her with magic. Mark 
was in a mood both of happy engrossment with 
Pauline and also of an odd pride and tension 
to put forth his best, and he was therefore 
keyed high for fun, for discussion, for mental 
alertness and jest. Pauline, by nature efferve¬ 
scent and loveable, deftly sensitive to the reac¬ 
tions of others, enacted the part of hostess in 
a sense, for she steered Mark (already quickly 
alert to her cues, her glances and her tones) so 
that at no time was there the slightest halt or 
dull spot. They made a perfect team, did Mark 
and Pauline; and astonishment and wonder—if 
not something else—were in Phyllis’ eyes as she 
saw the changes which had so obviously been 
wrought in Mark. For Mark was by no means 
now the Mark she had remembered; Mark of the 
stiff manner with dull, lowering look, conscious 
of his hands, with a dubious taste in ties and in 
clothes. Mark was now tuned to the quick, deft 
humor of Pauline; and Pauline’s banter and tact 
—to say nothing of rapidly awakened aesthetic 
feeling within himself (built also at Pauline’s in¬ 
stigation) had now expressed itself on his per¬ 
son and in his manner. At the same time he was 
making fast progress on his newspaper and his 
incisive brain was filled with fact and comment 
on life, politics, art and literature which Pauline 


Two Women 


203 


had also taught him how to express in conversa¬ 
tion, without what she called “monologuing” or 
orating. Phyllis, who had a distaste for news¬ 
paper reading and who thus was not very eclec¬ 
tically informed, found herself, to her own am¬ 
azement, hanging upon his words with a double 
interest, in the words and in the man. While 
Jimmy looked on with a mild interest, putting 
in only a word or two occasionally, Mark and 
Pauline shortly found themselves conducting 
what seemed like a private performance of talk 
with Phyllis the rapt and encouraging listener; 
but as the hours passed she more and more re¬ 
suscitated her old zest and participated in kind, 
and when at midnight Pauline rose to go, the 
slow fires of Phyllis nature were ruddy and hot, 
and she begged hard that they stay longer. But 
Jimmy had been yawning an hour or more after 
having taken a small part in the talk, and was 
even striding about restlessly, so Pauline in¬ 
sisted on going. 

As Phyllis took Mark’s hand to say goodbye 
and looked at him, there came over her a com¬ 
plication of feeling not at all intelligible to her, 
and entirely astounding. She wanted to see 
again in his eyes an appreciation of her; she 
had a faint envy of Pauline who could now have 
Mark. She even became a little coy, and she 
pressed his hand rather longer than Phyllis was 
ever known to have pressed anyone’s hand. 


204 


Two Women 


Mark’s eye was stony, even though his cheek 
registered a heat above normal. He wrongly 
diagnosed her symptoms as those of a woman 
who, barricaded behind a happy marriage, smiles 
benignantly upon a favorite, unsuccessful lover. 
His remembrance of the slow parsimony of her 
smiles in earlier days rankled too much for him 
to appreciate such lavishness now. It seemed 
to him almost unfriendly and even a little cruel. 

Hardly had Phyllis given expression to her im¬ 
pulse and noted no reciprocal light in Mark’s 
eye than she retreated in mild panic, but not 
without increasing poignancy of her feeling of 
loss and desire. What strongly excited and in¬ 
terested her was Mark’s highly increased per¬ 
sonal poise and aesthetic acceptability, hand in 
hand with a cosmopolitan command of language, 
humor, thought and social small talk. Realiza¬ 
tion of this was two-edged to Phyllis—an in¬ 
crease in her own furtive sense of inferiority 
and an uneasy question in her mind as to whether 
she had ever judged him correctly. 

She wanted very much to invite him to see 
her, and had, then, her first conception of the 
rigidities of sex life, her first contact with the 
bars of her self-selected cage. 

“It’s been so delightful to have you here,” 
she said looking at him, “and of course you, too, 
Pauline. I’d like awfully much, Mark, to show 
you the first draft of that article in which you 


Two Women 


205 


say Pm on the wrong side of the fence. Can’t 
we manage it?” 

There was a slight pause, threatening to be¬ 
come awkward. Then Panline serenely asserted 
herself—not altogether withont an authoritative 
proprietary tone which Phyllis was quick to note. 
“Any time you like, Phyllis,” she said, “come 
up to the studio and we’ll hold a clinic over it. 
Mark’s the most mercilessly cold blooded critic 
of an article I ever knew—but then he usually 
knows exactly what to do about it to make it 
right.” 

A resentment gathered in Phyllis. You’d 
think Pauline was married to Mark—so ran Phy- 
lis ’ thoughts—the way she makes arrangements 
for him! And he acquiesced calmly. Pauline 
and Mark are engaged perhaps, or—who knows? 
Hidden and obscure as it was, Phyllis never¬ 
theless felt that unreasoned antagonism to Paul¬ 
ine which springs so easily into the breast of a 
woman who sees another woman take possession 
of a man she likes—even though she has herself 
refused him. 

But she replied, “All right, Pauline. What 
about next week some evening?” 

So they made the appointment. Mark was 
moody on the way back. But so was Pauline. 
She was debating the wisdom, from her point of 
view, of having extended the invitation. She 
thought of Madame de Stael’s declaration that 


206 


Two Women 


she had never trusted any man who had not at 
some time been in love with her; and, while 
wishing to debate with Mark the nice point in 
human nature, wondered if Phyllis had ever loved 
her and whether she could trust her. She rea¬ 
soned that she could, but felt that she couldn’t; 
not any woman. 

“I wonder if I’m going to be a very jealous 
cat,” she said aloud. 

“Allah forbid” replied Mark. “Jealousy is 
not a feeling, it is a crime.” 


CHAPTER XV 


Phyllis had rarely visited Pauline’s studio 
It was inmost marked contrast to Phyllis’ chaste, 
orderly, even prim household of Colonial pieces. 
Books tumbled about everywhere in Pauline’s 
rather narrow quarters, made even grotesque by 
an angle in the ceiling. There were on the walls 
many original pen and ink “wash drawings” 
(illustrations used in fiction in the magazine). 
There were also queer bits about, an Aztec idol 
a piece of Chinese sculpture, Egyptian embroid¬ 
ery, a cubist panel, many magazines and large, 
somewhat undecorative, but undeniably comfort¬ 
able chairs. The fireplace was smoky and dirty 
with use. 

Subtly, the impressions Phyllis had momentar¬ 
ily felt on their parting the week before, came 
back with marked emphasis as soon as she was 
in the room. (She came alone, explaining that 
Jimmy was to call for her at eleven). 

It was Pauline, now, who was feeling on her 
mettle, and not at all unaware of the sudden ob¬ 
scure feud which existed between Phyllis and 
207 


208 


Two Women 


herself. The fact that the advantage lay with 
her gave her poise and courage, and being but 
human, she stressed a little more than necessary 
all the little things that have such suggestive 
power to imply closeness of bond and affection. 
She moved her head mysteriously and familiarly 
to Mark, and he made a fire; she made a curtsy 
to him with an obvious lexicon of meaning as he 
facetiously offered her the big leather chair in 
which she never sat (because she would appear 
engulfed and lost in it), except on the arm of It. 
when Mark was in it. 

“ Shall we give her cathedral light f” she asked 
Mark smilingly, as he stood by the library table 
lamp holding the chain pull. 1 i Cathedral light” 
in their parlance meant no lights but the two 
on the walls, thickly shaded; “dim, religious 
suffusion.” 

“No—I’ve got to read her manuscript,” 
grinned Mark. “I’ll need pitiless white light.” 

Each of these subtle darts went straight to 
their mark. Phyllis was brought to see thor¬ 
oughly well that Mark was now Pauline’s, that 
they had a language of glances, a dictionary of 
code words like any lovers, which mean things to 
them and them alone; “sacred syllables of OM” 
as Mark had called them. 

Instead, however, of killing in Phyllis any de¬ 
sires, however feeble, of retaining Mark’s scalp 
at her belt, which was Pauline’s innocent hope 


Two Women 


209 


and wish, she reckoned without the Phyllis who 
was as yet in the background, the savage be¬ 
neath the skin. Phyllis, though much more over¬ 
laid with civilized veneer than Pauline, was in 
fact far more primitive. Whereas the civilized, 
culture-veneered Phyllis might easily have su- 
pressed a straying desire to keep Mark’s inter¬ 
est, the unleashing of strong primitive motives 
of rivalry and jealousy produced powerful re¬ 
action. These motives smote Phyllis at a par¬ 
ticularly receptive time, for she was not only 
feeling intellectually the need of Mark, but had 
also few of her emotions and little of her energy 
occupied. 

Mark was thus presently mildly surprised and 
a little confused at the entirely strange keen¬ 
ness of Phyllis’ interest in what he said; the 
quick explosiveness of her laughter at his sallies; 
the playfulness of her eyes. That a duel was 
going on about him in the room, he was totally 
unaware of. If he wondered at Pauline’s con¬ 
stant telegraphy and use of almost the full vo¬ 
cabulary of their “code” and “sacred syllables,” 
he thought of it only proudly, for he too was 
playing a small part; he was entirely willing 
to disclose to Phyllis that he was near and dear 
to some one. A human heart repulsed oscillates 
toward another quite as much from pride as 
from need. 

While Phyllis was moving about the room 


210 


Two Women 


somewhat patronizingly admiring Pauline’s var¬ 
ious decorative miscellany, Mark settled himself 
ostentatously in the big leathern arm chair. 
“Bring on that Mss. now,” he said, “I’m goin^ 
to work. You two can chatter over the china 
while I’m on the job.” 

Phyllis sought her famous manuscript-size 
cowhide bag. 

“Still carrying that old thing!” said Mark, 
banteringly. I’ve carried that for you when it 
was heavy as lead with Manuscript which you 
said you were going to read that night—” 

“Said, but rarely did” commented Phyllis with 
an odd smile. “I must have been a hypocrite 
as well as a prig in those days.” 

Mark stared and whistled. 

“You’re surprised, I suppose,” said Phylbs 
frankly, “that I’m a little more onto myself 
these days. I’m not ashamed to own up to it. 
That’s one reason why I’m writing on this sub¬ 
ject—I didn’t tell you the title, did I? ‘Victori¬ 
an Maidens With Eeluctant Feet.’ ” 

“Oh, I see. Is it for the Atlantic of the North 
American Review, or does it denounce the ex¬ 
isting social order sufficiently to be eligible for 
the New Eepublic, the Nation or the Freeman?” 

“Don’t be sarcastic, Mark. It’s simply put¬ 
ting into words some of my own reactions. Girls 
nowadays are very much puzzled.” 

“From what one sees and hears of the flap- 


Two Women 


211 


pers, one would think they’re the most cock-sure 
things ever turned out of a nursery,” rejoined 
Mark. 

“That’s all ‘front ’—I agree with Phyllis,” cut 
in Pauline. “The flapper is whistling while go¬ 
ing through a graveyard full of spooks. She’s 
the most scared person in the world!” 

“Whew!” commented Mark. “Those hard- 
boiled eggs in the Village look anything but 
scared to me.” 

“Some of them aren’t,” protested “Phyllis, 
“some of the so-called Village crowd—if there 
is such a thing—represent women who really 
have a serene philosophy, and they’re ashamed 
of the gawky little morons who populate the 
cafes there, using vile language and striking at¬ 
titudes in the hope of shocking someone.” 

“I don’t think it’s so much the hope of shock¬ 
ing anyone,” said Pauline, “as it is an emptying 
out process. They’re delighted that it’s the 
fashion at last to stamp out the last vestige of 
Victorianism, because that’s the natural savage 
impulse to do, to get natural again. But as they 
have forsaken all standards, religion or philo¬ 
sophy of any kind, there’s no inhibition to hold 
them—not even the standard of good taste. 
They’re all engaged in spewing out the old, and 
one obvious way to do it, of course, is to be the 
reverse of the old.” 

“There’s a girl down in the Village who 


212 


Two Women 


breaks my heart,” Phyllis continued. “She’s— 
well she’s surely not more than twenty, such a 
lovely head of hair in spite of its bob, and such 
eyes! I’ve got blue eyes; but her’s are really 
worthy of the name Cerulean blue. She swears 
like six fishwives, and makes any man who’s 
not inured to the Village style blink his eyes 
in embarrassment at her off-hand back alley 
references to sex. As for women not used to 
it—well, I got all hot inside and wanted to get 
up and leave the studio of the sculptor I was in 
one evening. But I looked at her closely, and 
I saw she was babbling the dirty language like 
a child who was parrotting swear words. I’m 
really foolish enough to think she’s untouched 
in spite of the way I saw men trying to paw 
and kiss her!” 

“Mark, if you have any knightly blood in your 
veins,” laughed Pauline, “You’ll go down and 
rescue the maiden from the ogres!” 

“If she’s what Phyllis says she is, she’s one 
of your natural human icebergs, and is her own 
best defense,” commented Mark, calmly. “I’ve 
learned that the people who mouth sex overmuch 
rarely do much of it. Not only in the village, but 
everywhere you’ll find them—business men over- 
fond of dirty stories, spinsters who show abnor¬ 
mal interest in sex matters, girls and boys gig¬ 
gling over ‘things’—it’s the same principle. 


Two Women 


213 


This girl of Phyllis’ is probably unhappy. She’s 
a victim of the lack of maidenly reserves — 99 

“—of Victorian reserves—” interposed Phyl¬ 
lis. 

“She’s probably unable to fall in love, or to 
stay in love very long after she falls, nor has 
she trust in love even while she’s in love.” 

‘ 1 What an analysis!” Phyllis exclaimed glee¬ 
fully. “Philosopher and Sage, I Crown Thee!” 
and she twisted a branch of bitter-sweet on his 
brow, from behind his chair. 

“Very well, I’ll now tackle the article,” re¬ 
plied Mark, quite enjoying himself. “We’ll be 
able to talk more about the flapper, the leading 
phenomenon of the age, after I digest this.” 

For twenty minutes, then, Mark sat giving the 
most thoroughly concentrated attention to the 
article. Then he rose and went to where she 
was, standing before a small etching. 

“Phyllis Batterman”—it was curious how un¬ 
consciously he ignored her married name, but he 
was in a choleric mood—“if you don’t stop 
writing like a vain little highbrow and literary 
snob I’ll give you up as a hopeless sophomore!” 
he flung at her. Phyllis turned around, stood, 
back against the wall and looked intently at his 
hot angry face. She drew herself up proudly. 

“What did you think you were doing?” went 
on Mark cuttingly. “If you thought you were 
writing for the Atlantic , you certainly have a 


214 


Two Women 


distorted idea of what that Sacred Cow of liter¬ 
ature would fancy. What were you trying to do 
—use all the big words you know? Were you 
hoping to be understood only by the Brahmins? 
If you were, I’ll tell you that even they won’t 
grasp the complicated texture of your sentences. 
It seems to me you’re a hopeless snob, tangling 
yourself in the skein of your own snobbery. It’s 
a crime, the way you smother good ideas in your 
lifeless style. Why no—” 

“I think you’ve said all I care to hear,” inter¬ 
posed Phyllis, coldly and angrily. 

Mark reddened but became only the more in¬ 
tense. “You’re going to hear me out, Phyllis 
Batterman,” he said belligerently. “'You’ve 
been flirting with writing for four or five years, 
and you’ve never had a good old-fashioned lec¬ 
turing; you’ve been flattered and lied to, per¬ 
mitted your own way, fed with snobbery and 
withheld from discipline until your perfectly 
good talent has moulded and staled. I’m dis¬ 
gusted with you—” 

Phyllis gasped. “Stop your insults!” she 
cried wrathfully. “I won’t listen to another 
word—not another word!” 

“I’ll finish even if you walk out of the door,” 
said Mark with iron determination. 

“Mark!” cried Pauline, aghast. “Phyllis is 
my guest and you’re being positively rude to 
her!” Pauline stood wide-eyed and quick- 
pulsed. There was something in the air which 


Two Women 


215 


eluded her; a meaning to all this which rang lit¬ 
tle bells of alarm on the outer fringes of her 
understanding. 

“I mean no rudeness/’ retorted Mark, heav¬ 
ily. “I have been asked by Phyllis for candid 
criticism and Pm giving it to her minus the em¬ 
broidery and lace work. I may seem rude, but 
Pm only expressing my feeling and conviction 
honestly—in Phyllis’ interest. You’ll go to your 
grave a writer of sonorous quasi-literary phrases 
and highrbrow cliches, if I don’t succeed in jolt¬ 
ing you out of them. You’ll never write yourself 
into your work, only your veneered outer crust 
of copied and imitated style. You’re too good 
a critic yourself to like such work and the con¬ 
sequence will always be, as it has been up-to- 
date, that you’ll tell yourself you can’t write and 
stop trying. As it stands now, you’re right 
about yourself—you can’t write; you don’t know 
how to put yourself on paper. It’s a crime, a 
crime, I tell you, because you’ve got ideas, and 
you’ve got a feeling for style. You can be a 
good essayist.” 

“If I can’t write, why bother?” said Phyllis 
coldly. 

“Mark!” interjected Pauline, sharply, “You 
know perfectly well it’s a rotten way of develop¬ 
ing people, to tell them they can’t do anything!” 

“I beg your pardon,” retorted Mark instantly: 
“it’s a perfectly good method. I learned it from 


216 


Two Women 


an honest old gronch of a city editor in New 
York. Pll do this job my way, thank you.” At 
which Pauline walked slowly to a chair and sat, 
crushed and bewildered, for there was a chill, 
metallic ring in Mark’s voice. 

“I bother” continued Mark with incisive, level 
tones, turning to the flushed and angry Phyllis, 

4 ‘because I have loved you. I bother because 
I’m keen to have you write, and, by George, 
I’ll hurl at you all the epithets I know if you 
don’t get off your smug perch and write honest¬ 
ly!” Mark’s voice was a rising crescendo of 
intensity. 

44 Write honestly! You liar!” exploded Phyl¬ 
lis, angry to the point of distorted features. 

4 4 What do you mean by accusing me of dis¬ 
honesty?” She knew perfectly well what he 
meant but she was beside herself with the fury, 
pained surprise and shock of hearing the man 
whom she had always kept 44 under foot,” so to 
speak, treat her with such boldness and strength 
of will. But in the shock was also, in a strange 
way, an exultation and a pleasure. She divined, 
only half-consciously, that he loved her or he 
would not disclose so emotional an attitude; and, 
considered solely as primitive communion be¬ 
tween two people, it was an astoundingly agree¬ 
able relief from the soft-spoken, uninterested, 
and incompetent attitude of Jimmy. Here was 
unmistakable interest, at least; here was vivid 


Two Women 


217 


and palpably honest analytical opinion of the 
work so real and important to her. His words 
flowed over her spirit as a sudden wave of 
warm air might blow upon some chilled travel¬ 
ler, and it got from her inner self the same wel¬ 
come. Whatever her lips might say; whatever 
denunciations and hauteur her pride might dic¬ 
tate, it remained the authentic truth that she 
relished his vigorous words; that they kindled 
fires upon a somewhat cold and lonely hearth¬ 
stone. However formidable the roar and crack¬ 
ling of the flames thereon might be, the resulting 
warmth justified it. 

Pauline sat in a black wicker chair draped in 
a Spanish shawl. Her lustrous eyes were intent 
upon the scene, and ambient with a light which 
had the intent glitter of half-understood tragedy 
in fhem. She made no further effort to inter¬ 
rupt the scene, but her breath came only in 
halves and quarters, with frequent stoppings 
and startings. The actions and words of both 
Mark and Phyllis were totally incomprehensible 
to her; they seemed children who a moment be¬ 
fore playing decorously in clean pinafores, were 
now snarling and fighting with each other and 
mussing up their prim clothes. 

For Mark, the scene was obviously also an 
emotional catharsis, a discharge of tense electri¬ 
city subtly clarifying the air. It was as though 

the positive and negative poles of a powerful 


218 


Two Women 


battery withheld from forming a circuit for a 
long time, had met a little carelessly and leapt to 
lurid flame, throwing a livid green light upon the 
surroundings. As he had read on from page to 
page of her article, he had been surprised, then 
angered, at what bore to him unmistakable signs 
of deterioration instead of the progress he had 
looked for. That his own more rapid strides in 
his work might have shifted the relativity of his 
judgment of her work, he did not stop to con¬ 
sider. In all probability her article was as good 
or better than any previous effort, but Mark’s 
idealization of her and his own rapidly advanc¬ 
ing standards had combined to produce disap¬ 
pointment and anger to the point of fury. 

“Your dishonesty,” Mark continued, unruffled 
by Phyllis’ temper, “is style dishonesty—you 
know quite well what I mean. We’re all guilty 
of it in early stages of writing, but you have no 
right still to be in the early stages of writing! 
Sit down tomorrow and make a start with an 
absolutely new idea in mind—that you don’t 
care whether or not it sounds ‘like an Atlantic 
article’. Write it as you’d talk in good company, 
and be just as keen about trying to keep them 
listening to your printed word as you would be 
to your spoken word. Say it as easily as con¬ 
versation would come out of your mouth under 
such circumstances. You—” 

“Mister Professor,” suddenly interjected 


Two Women 


219 


Phyllis, with a broad smile—“may I take my 
seat, and if you must go on lecturing me, will 
you please stop feruling me!” The storm cloud 
had passed and Phyllis was entirely amiable; 
indeed strangely in good humor. 

They sat for another hour, having lively con¬ 
versation and Mark made no further reference 
to the article. When the bell rang, indicating 
Jimmy’s arrival, Phyllis rose, walked up to 
Mark, looked at him with her clear, unafraid eyes 
and said in an humble, serious way: “Mark, be¬ 
fore I go, tell me again, will you, your sugges¬ 
tion about rewriting the article? I’m really go¬ 
ing back to work on it tomorrow, first thing. 
Make it very clear. I—I really am trying hard 
to get it right. And I do appreciate your in¬ 
terest.” 

Mark made a quick, pleasant-voiced reply—in 
a tone almost diametrically opposite to the one 
he had used. i 

Pauline looked on, again in amazement. The 
gyrations of mood of these two were a disquiet¬ 
ing puzzle to her. I 

Phyllis turned to Pauline, kissed her. “I’m 
going to apologize both for Mark and myself,” 
she said very sweetly. “We’re made, I suppose, 
to fight, but I think we rather understand each 
other.” And she cast a more than pacific look 
at Mark while Pauline’s nostrils dilated and she 
inhaled deeply. Of course Phyllis had not un- 


220 


Two Women 


derstood the scene with Mark, but as it had been 
emotionally agreeable, she could believe it. 

Mark sat gazing at the fire a long time, and 
made only monosyllabic conversation. Pauline 
wafted herself away to her bedroom—like thistle¬ 
down before a shrivelling wind; and turning the 
latch flung off her clothes and dove into bed 
face down, and cried with dry eyes the long 
night through. At what, she hardly seemed to 
know. 


CHAPTER XVI 


During the next few weeks Phyllis felt hap¬ 
pier and more full of spirit than at any time in 
months. She fairly spun with energy and effort. 
Her household duties were whirled into comple¬ 
tion with great energy, and she put in long hours 
at the typewriter. Scarcely aware of it, how¬ 
ever, the focal point of her thought was Mark’s 
criticism. As though it were a measuring stick, 
she scrupulously held up her efforts to judgment 
by its standards. Not only were Mark’s spoken 
words before her, but also his copious marginal 
notes on her manuscript. His spoken words 
were ever fresh in her ears. Less obviously, 
though no less truly so, was also the warming 
knowledge of his intensity of interest, the brood¬ 
ing earnestness of his eyes, which sometimes 
thrust itself before her mental vision, with dis¬ 
turbing effect. 

She rose with elation from her machine one 
afternoon. 4 ‘There, Herr Professor Mark!” 
she proudly said to his imaginary presence, 
“What do you think of this? I think it’s a 
gem.” Then she read aloud: 

221 


222 


Two Women 


“ Victorian women were the golden-framed, ex¬ 
quisitely polished mirrors to which man in his 
vanity came to see himself reflected. Today the 
mirrors are somewhat cracked, reflecting his 
image less and less to his satisfaction—are be¬ 
coming startlingly and absurdly convex, in fact! 
Man revives therefore his superstitions about 
mirrors and is alarmed about the modern wo¬ 
man! He is sure there is going to be a funeral 
or a hanging!” 

Phyllis executed a happy dance, and then went 
back to the typewriter. 

When Jimmy came home she was still full of 
her subject, full of the fire of creation; saturated 
in fact, with the considerations and ideas inci¬ 
dent to the production of her article. Words, 
phrases, and sentences hopped into her mind; 
sonorous alliterations rolled on her tongue. She 
seemed to bud ideas at every turn, and like many 
another creator in the same situation, the closely 
physical objects, duties and facts of life were 
for the time being, blurred. She burned the 
toast, forgot to place napkins on the table, over¬ 
salted the rice and had little to say to Jimmy. 
As it happened, Jimmy was that night in a pre¬ 
carious frame of mind, but Phyllis saw nothing 
unusual. i 

Jimmy, however, like other men of his type 
when disturbed, took a complaining attitude and 
let down from his usual form in an odd manner, 


Two Women 


223 


like a fretty child. He complained—whined 
would have been too extreme a word; but it 
bordered on that. His voice had a petulant qual¬ 
ity. 

“Mr. Sawyer was here for the rent,” com¬ 
mented Phyllis, “and it was quite embarrassing. 
This is the second time he’s been here. You 
mustn't forget tomorrow to leave a check,” com¬ 
mented Phyllis. 

Jimmy stopped eating. He pushed back his 
chair. 

“What is the matter, Jimmy?” asked Phyllis 
in surprise. 

Jimmy was almost furtive. “I’ll have to tell 
you something” he said, weakly. “You know, 
we’ve been going on the plan that my income is 
$4,000 a year. Well, it was, but it isn't now.” 

“Why, Jimmy, what in the world can you 
mean? Have they cut the salaries?” 

“No,” said Jimmy, with a peculiar pout. “I 
never told you—I should have—my $4,000 was 
partly from a legacy of my uncle—income from 
securities. I suppose”—doggedly—“I led you 
to think I made that as salary. But I’m getting 
only $2,400 a year, and three or four months 
ago my securities passed dividends—the stock 
was in my uncle’s textile plant, and I don’t know 
when they’ll begin paying dividends again.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” cried 
Phyllis—“I might have cut down further on 


224 


Two Women 


our expenses.” As she spoke she felt both a 
pity and an irritation at Jimmy’s manner of do¬ 
ing things. 

“And besides,” continued Jimmy, looking the 
picture of irresolution and dejection, “the head 
of our department and I don’t get along at all 
and I don’t want to stay there.” Jimmy’s 
lower lip weakened and he shuffled his feet 
irritably. He looked at his finger nails, pink 
and perfectly polished, and self-consciously 
brushed a crumb off his trousers and straightened 
his impeccable tie, making a wry, disconsolate 
face as he did so. 

Somehow the scene came back to her many 
times later. Phyllis at that moment germinated 
a completely new attitude toward Jimmy. She 
repressed a smile—a smile a mother suppresses 
when her boy barks his shin trying unsuccess¬ 
fully to do something beyond his capacity. Ris¬ 
ing she came over to his chair, ruffled his hair. 
“Never mind,” she said in a tone resonant with 
a mother feeling, “don’t you care. We’ll work 
it out. Tell me about this man you can’t get 
along with. Is it Mr. Jacobs?” 

She spent the evening mainly in gathering up 
the loose ends of his courage, and talking over 
his affairs. Through it all she had a perplexed 
feeling of newness and strangeness in their re¬ 
lationship—a capacity for aloofness, seeing him 
from the vantage-point of a lengthened fore- 


Two Women 


225 


ground and deeper perspective; and more queer 
still, a feeling of having aged and of having 
loosed hold of a staff upon which she had been 
leaning and becoming herself a staff upon wdiich 
he now leaned. It was almost dazing, a feeling 
of standing on her head, of being like the chil¬ 
dren in fairy tales, turned into a new shape dif¬ 
ferent from her old one, and of compulsion forc¬ 
ing her to be something she was not. 

The next morning Jimmy, having passed a 
restless night, continued to be irritable, and was 
late. His collar refused to join, and finding he 
had smudged the third collar with his fingers’ 
ends endeavoring to fasten it, he suddenly let 
his hands fall to his side. Tears came into his 
eyes and he gave vent to a defeated sob. Phyllis 
was in the room doing her hair and saw Jimmy’s 
action, and fled precipitately to the bathroom. 
She smothered her face in a Turkish towel—for 
she was seized with laughter of which she was 
unwilling to give the slightest sign, but it was 
uncontrollable. It was laughter, however, with 
a strange persistence. No sooner had Jimmy 
been sent off, with a double portion of morning 
kisses, than Phyllis laughed until the walls flung 
it back at her with hard echoes. All day she 
laughed, sometimes with a few short uncon¬ 
trolled repercussions, sometimes silently with 
but an amused curve of the lips, sometimes while 
holding a pot over the stove, until she had to 


226 


Two Women 


put it down for fear it would drop. That pic¬ 
ture of Jimmy was an unforgettable caricature. 

Coming more gradually into her consciousness, 
however, was the economic situation. It was 
distinctly disturbing to realize, just before she 
was to have a child, that their income was not 
much more than half of what she supposed it 
was. The more she thought about it the less her 
mirth over Jimmy’s comical figure recurred. In¬ 
stead a distinctly serious look gathered upon 
her face. 

She stopped in the middle of the room and 
looked about. “A baby is here, and perhaps not 
enough money for any help! What will then 
become of my writing hopes! If I can scarcely 
get anything written now —what will happen 
then. And if I do try a job and have some 
help, still how will I get time, with overseeing 
baby and looking after Jimmy?” She used 
the words “looking after Jimmy” now—she had 
never used them before. The prospect looked 
more and more bleak as she endeavored to peer 
into the future, and as an immediate result she 
sat down feverishly to work, as though a death 
or exile sentence hung suspended, Poe-pen- 
dulumwise, over her. Her fingers flew and the 
high noon glided into twilight and winter dark¬ 
ness, seemingly with express speed. She was 
flushed, determined and high-strung, and Jimmy 
that evening found a spouse crisp and almost 


Two Women 


227 


marinet-like in her decisions as to their course 
of action. Jimmy seemed relieved to have 
decisions made for him. 

“What is this disagreement yon have with 
Jacobs ?” she asked. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Jimmy vaguely. 
He was chronically silent regarding office af¬ 
fairs. 

“I want to know,” Phyllis insisted. 

“Well,”—Jimmy twisted in his chair—“he’s 
a sarcastic, mean, fussy devil, and he’s taken 
to calling me nicknames and-” 

“Nicknames!” exclaimed Phyllis. “What does 
he call you?” 

“I’d rather not say,” said Jimmy, uncom¬ 
fortably. 

“Wfhat does it matter,” urged Phyllis care¬ 
lessly and comfortingly. 

“It wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for the 
others in the office. He has no right to make 
me a butt of ridicule!” Jimmy’s voice rose 
protestingly, with a hint of falsetto. 

“Have you told him so?” 

“I—I’ve asked him not to.” Jimmy seemed 
a little uncertain. 

“Jimmy, you haven’t! I believe you’ve just 
let him say what he likes! Why don’t you 
answer him back in kind? I’d give him a mouth¬ 
ful!” 

“I’d prefer to resign,” replied Jimmy, loftily. 


228 


Two Women 


“Ridiculous!” exclaimed Phyllis. “The very 
next time he is uncivil, just don’t care and say 
something as sharp or sharper, but do it in a 
bantering spirit.” 

‘What could I say to him?” asked Jimmy 
unconvinced. 

“How should I know if you don’t tell me 
what he says to you?” 

Jimmy hesitated, a little awkwardly. “He 
has dozens of names for me, every kind—‘Beau 
Brummel’, is the least of them. He calls me ‘The 
Cat’s Necktie,’ ‘Pussywillow,’ ‘Fido,’ ‘Ger¬ 
trude,’ and what not. It’s really getting un¬ 
bearable.” Jimmy looked a trifle tragic. 

Phyllis wanted to smile, but held in. “He 
can’t really mean much by it. Why, I once met 
Mr. Chambers, the head of your firm, you 
remember, and he said you were one of the best 
men they had. Isn’t it just common office spoof¬ 
ing?” she asked, reassuringly. 

“No, it is not. They carry it too far.” 

“They?” 

“Oh, they all join in, naturally, when the 
Chief sets the example,” responded Jimmy bit¬ 
terly. “I’m simply going to resign. I’ve told 
Jacobs so.” 

“You have! Well, Jimmy Owen, you will 
just simply have another think, unless you know 
where you can get another position. Have you 
an offer anywhere else?” 


Two Women 


229 


Jimmy shook his head reluctantly. “Yon 
know what the building field has been.” 

“Well, then what do yon mean, resign?” 

Phyllis ’ voice took on a slight quality of hard¬ 
ness. “Do yon forget, Mr. James Owen, that 
in February yon will have an heir to support?” 

Jimmy turned, almost sheepishly, in his chair 
and looked at her with such a composite mien 
of embarrassment, guilt, awe and sober appre¬ 
hension that Phyllis ’ recently acquired capacity 
to laugh at him once more overcame her. She 
got up and threw her head back and laughed 
until the room rang with it. She could scarcely 
stop, but realizing how totally out of harmony 
with him was her mirth, she stopped, mussed 
his hair and petted him maternally. Instinct¬ 
ively she realized, for the second time recently, 
that not only in some but in all matters of 
moment she, and not he, would have to take 
the responsibility of decision. 

“You start a new life with them tomorrow,” 
she told him. “Smile and fire back as best you 
can. As soon as they see they can’t ruffle you, 
they’ll quit. I know those men—on The Area - 
dian £here was a little group of them who did 
their best to ruffle my dignity. It became their 
daily sport—I suppose I was good game for 
it in those days because I put on airs.” 

“A woman’s different,” commented Jimmy, 
ruefully 


230 


Two Women 


“I don’t think so at all,” promptly disagreed 
Phyllis. “If you think it was anything easy 
for one woman to walk by the desks of ten 
men every day and have them whisper loudly 
for my benefit as I passed in and out, and get 
up fake memoranda and even put up jobs on 
me—you’re mistaken. Why, there was one prac¬ 
tical joker who disguised an actor friend of his 
as a long-haired poet and sent him to me. The 
man threatened to commit suicide in my office if 
I didn’t accept his stuff! I’d love to have had a 
man’s chance to get back at them! But being a 
woman my only weapon was frigid dignity; but 
how I should like to have let loose some rough 
stuff on them!” 

The next morning Phyllis was again at the 
typewriter almost the moment Jimmy left, and 
she absorbed herself with desperate intensity in 
the completion of the article. 

In the course of the next week she was meas¬ 
urably satisfied with it, but found herself brood¬ 
ing over it and continuing to make many revi¬ 
sions with every re-reading. Finally, with a 
resolute gesture she creased the manuscript. 
“No more tinkering!” she exclaimed aloud. 
“I’m afraid I’ll spoil it if I do any more. I 
wonder if it really is good?” 

And then, with quite inevitable logic, she be¬ 
came conscious that it was Mark whose critical 


Two Women 


231 


standards she had carried in the background of 
her mind; that it was Mark whom she now great¬ 
ly desired to pass judgment on her work; desired 
above all things to have him pronounce it good 
or show her further how to make it so. 


I 


CHAPTER XVII 


Out one morning doing some shopping, de¬ 
layed considerably by concentration on her ar¬ 
ticle, Phyllis was walking down the Avenue in a 
leisurely detached manner she now had—gazing 
upon life as from a far window, instead of churn¬ 
ing with it in its very vortex. 

As she passed the Public Library she drank 
in its lines with a special air of abstraction, un¬ 
til she felt a very near presence, and turning 
beheld Mark grinning as he almost ran her down. 

Vermilion suffused Phyllis from her neck to 
her hair; it was one of her remaining useless 
appendages from her gradually disappearing 
Victorianism that Phyllis could blush as full a 
blush as ever a rustic milkmaid blushed—on rare 
occasions. This was such a rare occasion, for 
it was the exact truth that she had been think¬ 
ing of him, and that the materialization of her 
thought had been disconcerting. A full-fledged 
Victorian might have found cause to blush solely 
because under her arm Phyllis carried some lit¬ 
tle perquisites just bought which she was going 
232 


Two Women 


233 


to transform with her own hands into garments 
for an unborn child; but Phyllis was at least 90 
degrees longitude from this position. Her rem¬ 
nant of Victorianism consisted in a squat censor 
who within her was sitting tight on the lid of 
the knowledge that Mark was more than an ac¬ 
quaintance to her, more even than a friend. 

“This is luck!” laughed Mark. “I was just 
hopping to a more or less genteel standup 
lunch place, to get lunch over with quickly—not 
because I haven’t time, but because somehow 
nowadays, I hate eating alone. Of course you'll 
have to serve now as my appetizer and lunch 
with me.” 

Somehow from the very “kick-off” of this 
meeting, Mark’s manner, words and security 
shattered into shreds and flung away finally 
her conceptions of him as a gauche, plaintive, 
uncosmopolitan suitor. He seemed actually to 
be teasing her, and she had blushed at seeing 
him! She felt again that curious bivalent at¬ 
titude toward him: on the one hand an irritated, 
outraged sense of being mastered rather than of 
mastering, and on the other hand, a resurgent 
pleasure and interest in the fact that he could 
do so. None of the former earmarks of his 
gaucheries were evident in his manners. Pique 
alone would have heightened interest in him, 
since he was no longer distressingly obsessed 
with love of her, but there was now also a much 


234 


Two Women 


stronger reason for her interest in him: he had 
galvanized her into new angles on her work; he 
was in a perfectly correct sense father to her 
creative writing, mate to her literary self. True, 
the relationship was still tenuous and uncon¬ 
scious, but none the less real. 

They walked down the Avenue aimlessly, for 
Mark had no distinct idea of where they were 
going. 

“I suppose you’ve long ago sent out that ar¬ 
ticle just as it was when I shot it full of holes 
that night,” he queried, gayly. 

“I did not!” answered Phyllis. “I went to 
work the very next morning, did just what you 
advised me to do—minus your profanity—and 
it’s a hundred per cent, better!” 

“Bravo!” exclaimed Mark, touched, still re¬ 
taining an airy aloofness with which he had over¬ 
laid his feelings for her. 

“I worked over that thing more intenselv 
and excitedly than over anything I’ve ever done, 
and—well, I’ll frankly tell you it’s the only thing 
between me and despondency over myself; the 
knowledge that I’ve turned out what I concede is 
a good essay! It makes me feel I’m still on the 
map!” 

“I’m awfully glad to hear all that,” said Mark 
in a lowered tone which took on more feeling 
and intimacy. 

“You were so darned right,” Phyllis conceded 


Two Women 


235 


generously, “that after I had the new one fin¬ 
ished, I stumbled upon the old one. It read so 
complicatedly, I burned it up in disgust.” 

“Well, the simple is the great thing in writing. 
Drayton Oliver this morning was quoting to some 
tyro Lowell’s statement that ‘simplicity, where 
it isn’t a careless gift of the Muses, is the last 
and most painful achievement of conscientious 
self-denial!’ ” 

“I’ll say it was painful,” laughed Phyllis. 

“I want to read it,” said Mark suddenlv. 
“Have you sent it away?” 

“No-o. I laid it away. I took my own old 
advice to budding writers.” 

“I want to see it right away,” repeated Mark, 
very positively. 

“Before we eat?” smiled Phyllis, archly. 

“We’ll go to the Prince George to eat,” re- 
plide Mark suddenly. “We’re almost there. Do 
you remember we lunched there once?” 

Phyllis hardly dared look at him, but she re¬ 
turned a glance out of the corner of her eye. 
How well she remembered his hot, despairing, 
semi-tragic air as he proposed again so ridicu¬ 
lously over the soup that day! 

But Mark showed no signs of self-conscious¬ 
ness or discomposure over the idea of tempting 
their memories with embarrassments. 

“Yes, I remember,” smiled Phyllis, not a lit- 


236 


Two Women 


tie amused to find that this time she and not he 
felt embarrassed. 

She actually blushed again, when as the soup 
was placed before them he laughed. 

* 6 This time I’m going to let you eat your 
soup in peace,” he smiled. “I remember I nut 
over some low tragedy stuff that time.” 

Phyllis could not reply. She was 4 ‘out-faced.” 
to say nothing of feeling a vague protest at 
Mark’s light manner of stepping around such 
memories. 

Mark’s eyes were upon her in auite another 
manner than formerly, when she had read in them 
only a dogged, wounded, misty emotion. Today 
he was taking in with cool appraisal, her ap¬ 
pearance, and woman-like she imagined he was 
noting that she had on a very second best gown, 
trimmed with woolen stitchings which originally 
had been bright colored, but had faded and 
even sagged off. She had come out dressed 
for an incognito morning of shopping. 'Wttiy 
hadn’t she put on that new black gown in which 
she looked so well? 

Of course, Mark was noting nothing so com¬ 
monplace as a textile fabric; he was noting the 
delicate texture of her soft white skin, the rich, 
brown, chocolaty lusciousness of her hair, the 
sensitive purity of her lips, the natural dignity 
of her posture, the shy gracefulness of her hand. 
And as he looked into those splendid tunnels of 


Two Women 


237 


light and color which were her eyes, he seared 
himself once more in the flames of his love for 
her, despite all the well-engineered asbestos pro¬ 
tections he had erected. 

As for Phyllis, the play of unconscious forces 
in her did not once tilt the censor’s lid. Wlith 
that genius for being unconscious which women 
have, to a degree so strange to man, Phyllis 
warmed herself at his presence, wished it need 
not end so soon, and felt an emotion for him, 
without even doubting or questioning her status 
in love. 

As Walzell has pointed out in discussing the 
plays of Von Kleist, as soon as the women in the 
plays became conscious they fell into error. It 
is certain that had Phyllis felt that she was fall¬ 
ing in love with Mark, she would have risen 
from the table almost, if not quite as primly as 
she rose long ago when Herbert McAvoy flirted 
with her. 

Phyllis changed the subject to politics, in which 
she always retained a degree of interest unusual 
in a woman, and they argued the “splendid iso¬ 
lation” theory of American foreign policy until 
the end of the dessert. Mark found that in her 
presence his armour of reserve was gradually 
wearing thin and that a moodiness subtly set¬ 
tled upon him; he knew finally then that his only 
defense was distance—and Pauline. With rare 
command of himself he therefore broke up the 


238 


Two Women 


luncheon almost as soon as desert was over, 
not even lingering to smoke. 

Phyllis was disappointd and rose with obvious 
reluctance, a rebellious, hurt feeling within her. 
Almost bitterly she recalled how keen he had 
been the other time to stay; she had been the 
one then to snap the luncheon off short. It 
would almost appear that he had done this de¬ 
liberately, vengefully, but she cast awav the 
thought as beneath him, which of course it was. 

She had pictured another visit when they 
might discuss her article together, and the anti¬ 
cipation of it had been incredibly sweet; but 
Mark evidently had no such idea. 

‘‘ This was delightful and unexpected,’’ Mark 
said, stopping to part immediately outside the 
hotel door, without inquiring which way she was 
walking. “But you must promise absolutely to 
mail me that article. I’ll give you the regular 
professional opinion of it—just as though it 
came in the mails and I was an editor of a good 
magazine!” 

She promised and he stepped off uptown so 
decisively that although she, was going up-town, 
she turned in the opposite direction for a block 
and then turned back, her feelings meanwhile 
gradually acquiring a dull pain. 

“I suppose he’s in love with Pauline,” she 
said half-aloud; yet at the very sound of her 


Two Women 


239 


own words a series of sensations arose within 
her which were decidedly novel to her. 

“I actually believe I’m jealous!” she said, 
again half loud, and she laughed a merry but 
mirthless laugh. “What’s eating you?” she 
said talking to herself, “he wanted you and you 
turned him away and choose someone else; what's 
eating you? Can’t you see another girl love what 
you didn’t want? And, anyhow, for goodness 
sake, you’re a married woman!" The usual 
taboo automatically sent a flush of shame to her 
face. She absolutely turned her mind right-about 
face. 

But she could not command herself. There is 
no woman so helplessly a creature of the love 
emotion as she who has been untouched with 
it until her more mature years. 

Phyllis had never had the “boy and girl af¬ 
fair 1 ” of school days, never a '“crush” ‘on a 
school-mate, never a yielding tender feeling even 
for a male relative, or a friend. At no time had 
a man ever mattered beyond the hour, and as 
for Jimmy, her affection had never been any¬ 
thing but a willed affection, a conscious, com¬ 
fortable, deliberate choice, scarcely rippling the 
surface, never agitating her tranquility or poise. 
Never before had emotion for another—except 
her mother—seized her against her will, made 
ducks and drakes of her decisions, and stirred 
that deep artesian well of self which comes up 


240 


Two Women 


from unplumbed depths and presses against its 
cap, the mind, with a pressure that only inten¬ 
sifies the futility of all efforts to resist. “Self 
is the lord of self” said the Dhamapadra; but 
that was before the ominous discovery that civi¬ 
lized man had plumed his head with a brain-hat 
which he called his self, whereas it is but the 
creature and adornment of real self, that self of 
whose existence we are hardly aware, the dumb 
but regal Unconscious. 

Phyllis continued her shopping. She made 
some ridiculous errors, left the counter without 
waiting for her change, asked for a comforter 
when she wanted blankets, gave her address in¬ 
correctly twice in succession, until the salesgirl 
whose sales check was muddled with erasures, 
looked up impudently as if to remark that may¬ 
be she had forgotten what her name was. 

Her mind was a tangled and conflicting scene, 
the more painfully so because conflicts of an 
emotional and moral kind were strange as Zulu 
tom-toms to her. Her conduct had always been 
a line of unbroken precision; more, it had been 
precise without particular effort or struggle to 
make it so. She did not now dally with the idea 
of breaking the line of precision—she was open¬ 
ly and flatly against the rebellion which brewed 
in her heart. She was even indignant with her¬ 
self, disgusted in fact, with the feelings wich now 
so boldly tilted the lid of censorship in her mind. 


Two Women 


241 


“You, soon to become a mother, wishing for 
tete-a-tetes with another man!” she flung at her¬ 
self accusitively. “You, married to the man of 
your choice, envying Pauline the privilege of 
Mark’s company. You who once felt you scarce- 
ly could finish a meal with him once in a month 
because his table manners annoyed you so! 
Oh!” For the moment she triumphed, but as 
she wandered through the great department store 
this astoundingly brazen imp within herself would 
perpetrate what she knew to be outrages upon 
herself. If she passed a department where men’s 
handsome dressing gowns were hung upon racks, 
the picture of Mark lounging in one of these 
would conjure itself forth, and before it could 
be banished, she felt herself warming to the pic¬ 
ture it drew forth, of a cozy evening talk and 
eager plans for her work, lively mutual recount¬ 
ing of the adventures of writing and editing. 
But, stop! Phyllis would charge upon it with 
the righteous anger of a deacon catching small 
boys desecrating the church. Only to walk past 
a longer counter of men’s shirts and be con¬ 
scious of thoughts of what colors Mark looked 
best in! Did he too, like Jimmy, look best in 
soft collars? As for pajamas and underwear, 
she hurried through the department with a flush 
on her cheek, and resolved upon drastic punish¬ 
ment of her errant imagination. 

That very evening she spent several hours 


242 


Two Women 


going over the essay before sending it to Mark. 
At last she laid it affectionately in an envelope, 
lingered over a note to accompany it, and de¬ 
stroyed two or three notes before she was satis¬ 
fied: 

Dear Mark: 

The article! I breathe a little Hindu prayer 
on it as I clip it into the envelope; a prayer 
that I may recognize my child after it has jour¬ 
neyed to the sacred shrine and been blessed (or 
cursed) by Buddha! 

I am a fond parent, but not too fond, and can 
even find heart to throw it into the Ganges if 
you insist! 

Under any circumstances I make low obeisance 
to the All-Knowing One and shall await with due 
humility your comment. 

I enjoyed our luncheon most exceedingly. It 
was a lunch-eon and not a mere lunch this time, 
wasn’t it?) 

Phyllis 

She hesitated a little over the last sentence, 
for she knew perfectly well that the reference 
to the lunch was extraneous and unnecessary. 
She had quite adequately thanked him at noon. 
But she did not delete it because it represented 
an association of ideas which she didn’t want 
to acknowledge to herself but desired to use just 
the same. She wanted to lunch with him again, 


Two Women 


243 


and the sentence was a daughter of Eve’s mode 
of invitation. 

The next five days were merely ticks of a clock 
approaching the desired hour of arrival of word 
from Mark. She kept the day from assuming a 
gray color by telling herself that surely the 
morning would bring word, or that the telephone 
might at any moment ring. She felt, for the 
very first time in her life, the exquisite touch 
of pain and anticipatory pleasure which Alex¬ 
ander Bell brought into life via his telephone,— 
the emotional oscillations which are set up by 
the ringing of a telephone when one is waiting 
longingly for the voice of some-one who matters 
much. Also those oscillations set up by the 
vibrations of a voice other than one who so 
yearningly is expected. Phyllis flew to the tele¬ 
phone half a dozen times during those five days, 
eyes bright, breath eager, voice expectant—only 
to discover in the ear piece the voice of a tailor 
or a dressmaker or a some quite forgotten per¬ 
son of no importance. Hoping as she did for 
personal contact rather than a mere letter from 
Mark, the mail man was not quite the same ob¬ 
ject of interest, but it was in the mail, after all, 
that Phyllis one morning espied Mark’s large 
handwriting on a large manilla envelope bearing 
his paper’s imprint. 

It arrived just as Jimmy emerged from the 
bedroom groomed and ready for breakfast, and 


244 


Two Women 


Phyllis once more had the head-on collision be¬ 
tween wifeliness and the new formidable desire. 
She answered Jimmy’s conversation jerkily, 
quite forgot the sugar in his coffee, which it was 
her habit to pour and fix for him. Her goodbye 
kiss was more than perfunctory—it was the light 
Eooseveltian greeting and push, a hail-and-fare- 
well in one composite gesture. 

She read Mark’s brief penned note with light¬ 
ning eyes—re-read it and then paused hungrily 
over each phrase: 

Dear Phyllis: 

Proud of you! You vindicate every hope I’ve 
had of you. It’s rich in ideas, delicately tex¬ 
tured in style. It was worth while writing— 
which test, so much that’s written nowadays 
doesn’t meet. You have something to say. No 
Ganges for this child! Nor curses! 

But —yes, there’s a but, though not a dis¬ 
heartening one. You should now do it over from 
the point of view of proportion to the phases of 
your subject. You’ll recall perhaps what Buf- 
fon said, that “genius is shown in the architec¬ 
tonic gift—in the power to unify a subject and 
keep every detail in proper subordination.” 
Well, that’s the ticket—do just this to the ar¬ 
ticle. A good essay is an architectural structure 
which should give you the same builder’s thrill 
as inspired the building of the Taj Mahal, the 


Two Women 


245 


Alhambra, the Flower Pagoda or the Woolworth 
Building. A little more work on proportion and 
balance and you’re there! Almost a whole page 
at the front—you’ll see it scored lightly with my 
pencil—could be cut out altogether. 

Take a couple of weeks—I’m sure it’ll be ready 
to go to ye editor then, with bells on. 

Mark. 

While it was very comforting to know that he 
thought so well of the article, the pleasure was 
peculiarly nullified by what seemed like casual 
interest. He gave no hint of desiring to see her 
when she had finally revised it; nor even to see it 
before she sent it away. Though she could see 
that part of her feeling must be discounted on 
the count of sensitiveness, she persisted in feeling 
that he had treated her rather cavalierly. Even 
his final criticism was only in broad principle 
and not detailed. 

Then, with her innate sanity, she recoiled from 
such an ungenerous and unfair idea. 4 ‘He’s 
simply splendid—why, he made this essay! It 
wouldn’t live today except for him! And I’m ex¬ 
pecting a man I half-despised—a man who loved 
me and whom I jilted—to pour himself out for 
me and my ambitions, and carp at him for not 
doing more when he’s done so much already!” 

Fired, then with this feeling about Mark, she 
spent the next several weeks most absorbedly at 


246 


Two Women 


work and with meticulous care carried out the 
idea of better balance and proportion. 

One day, in the middle of this work she paused 
and suddenly burst forth aloud. “Eight here 
and now I’ll say to the cuckoo clock, that I pre¬ 
sent my respects and compliments to one Mark 
Stockman, simply as a keen judge of literary val¬ 
ues. I didn’t see what he meant when I first got 
his letter, but I see it now. A man who has as 
fine an instinct as he has shown is a man I can 
look up to, and be ashamed, yes ashamed of ever 
having considered in the slightest degree inferior. 
What a callow superficial thing I was not to see 
him at his worth long ago!” 

At last she was satisfied with it, and then she 
was in a quandary. Should she send it to Mark? 
Should she telephone him? But he had not sug¬ 
gested any of these things, and it was still too 
great a reversal of old-time form for her to feel 
free to take the initiative with Mark. She 
waited an entire day; and then with a sudden 
self-justifying gesture of “broadmindedness”, 
lifted the telephone receiver and called him. 
Even as she waited she was nervous with vague 
sensations of guilt, foreboding and just plain 
excitement. 

“Mark Stockman? This is Phyllis. I—” 

“Thank you, fine. I have the essay completed, 
and—” 

“That’s nice of you. I—I thought you might 


Two Women 


247 


enjoy lunching with me and having a final talk 
about it.” 

“Can’t? That’s too bad. Well, what about to¬ 
morrow?” 

“Not? Well, then never mind. It doesn’t 
matter. Good—” 

“What’s that? Yes, that’s where I’ve been 
meaning to send it. Goodbye!” 

The very sound of the receiver snapping on the 
hook seemed like the tolling of an intolerable 
bell. She was stricken from head to foot with a 
hot shame, a clammy chill and an incredibly de¬ 
basing self-realization, all at the same time. 
There was no doubt about it—he had declined 
to lunch with her; he did not care to. He desired 
no further contact with her. 

Rising to her feet, Phyllis proceeding only a 
few steps when she realized that she was swav- 
ing and that a roaring conflagration was taking 
place within her, beating upon her eardrums, 
burning her throat, almost stopping her heart. 
She reached the divan and fell upon its soft 
cushions and sobbed quite as she had not sobbed 
since the days of her young girlhood—real par¬ 
oxysms and heart-pains quite beyond plucking 
out with the will. 

Later she raged at him; only to be overcome 
with a sense of unfairness. The very crux of her 
emotion had to do with precisely the fact that 
he had acted altogether impeccably, that by her 


248 


Two Women 


own most cherished tenets of conduct she had 
transgressed, not he. She ascribed his declina¬ 
tion to moral grounds, whereas of course, that 
had had no power with Mark, only self-salva¬ 
tion. But it was the moral ground, as she mag¬ 
nified it, that provided her with most suffer¬ 
ings and self-castigation. 

So began for Phyllis a brave and lonely strug¬ 
gle with a desire for Mark, the very existence 
of which she endeavored vehemently to deny. 
For aid she now, of course, summoned pride, 
that trussed steel support of conduct, which can 
in the heart’s dire need brace a soul against the 
phenomenal wind-pressure of fate—in spite of 
Buskin’s disillusioning assertion that pride is at 
the bottom of all great mistakes. She had an 
invaluable aid, too, in the traditional fury of the 
woman scorned, for at times the very poignancy 
of her untried and inexperienced emotions made 
a target of Mark, merely for purposes of dis¬ 
charging the accumulated pressure of feeling. 
She excoriated him, at such rare times, for ever 
having felt real devotion to her. How could he 
be so callous now? At other times and more of¬ 
ten, Pauline was the target. Pauline had jeal¬ 
ously turned him against her. Nevertheless 
Phyllis’ reasoning powers were not inconsider¬ 
able, and she threw off these poisons very quick¬ 
ly and realized the anomaly of her feelings, un¬ 
der the circumstances of her own choice. 


Two Women 


249 


In little ways, but with increasing momentum, 
she felt irritated with Jimmy, and once or twice 
she stunned herself with the admission that the 
thought came to her occasionally, “Just why did 
I marry Jimmy V 9 

And one morning she read in the newspaper 
an account of archeologisist who had uncovered 
ancient Babylonian tablets containing legends of 
Adam and Eve, one of which was the tale of the 
Gods offering to one of mankind fruit which 
would make him immortal. But Man in his ig¬ 
norance declined it, believing it to be poison. 

As she read it, she closed her eyes and 
thought of Mark. She too had declined a gift of 
the gods, she reflected with melancholy bitter¬ 
ness, because of some equally absurd ignorance. 
She was not, now, above openly admitting it to 
herself. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


For Mark, these were days of intensely willed 
absorption in Panline. He clung to her with a 
double focussing of interest, for it was now 
clear to him, first that she was the spiritual 
nitrate without which his soil would have re¬ 
mained barren and acrid; she was the inoculator 
in him of the precise cultures in which he was 
lacking. Second, her love was not only a vast 
comfort, but also a revelation, for she had a 
genius for love. She was like the Abra of Pri¬ 
or: 

Abra was with him ere he spoke her name, 
And if he called another, Abra came. 

Pauline devined him, knew his soul was cal¬ 
ling Phyllis, but with a disciplined, philoso¬ 
phical spirit, she never upbraided him for it, but 
even encouraged him to speak of her. Which 
aided him to expel from his heart his feeling 
and draw around Pauline the tendrils thus 
loosened. 

On the evening of the day that he lunched 
with Phyllis he told Pauline of it. “I have de- 
250 


Two Women 


251 


cided I don’t want to see her again,” he com¬ 
mented, quietly. 

“Mark!” exclaimed Pauline, scarcely knowing 
whether she felt glad or sorry. 

“Well, I have,” he insisted. “What’s the use? 
I find it unleashes great big mastiffs in my in¬ 
ner self which might just as well be left to 
sleep—and to die a natural death,” he added 
quickly. 

“You needn’t palliate anything in connection 
with Phyllis, Mark,” said Pauline, very gently. 
“For after all I’m not at all sure but that your 
deeply-rooted feeling for her makes you all the 
dearer to me.” Pauline looked at him out of her 
witch-like black eyes, as pregnant with many 
meanings as coal tar is pregnant with many col¬ 
ors, and Mark was moved. 

“You’re a treasure, a love, an endless pro¬ 
cession of surprises,” Mark exclaimed, reaching 
for her hand and holding the thin fingers, throb¬ 
bing like a live little thrush, in his hand. “Who 
could have made that little speech but a Paul¬ 
ine?” 

Silent a moment, he continued in an argument¬ 
ative tone. “Why aren’t more of us as civilized 
in our emotional life as we are in our intellectual 
life? I make no bones about it—I think you’re 
beautifully poised, I’ll never be able to tell you 
how I appreciate your fineness.” 

Pauline laughed wryly. “Mark, dear, perhaps 


252 


Two Women 


you don’t know that once when you were so in¬ 
tent on Phyllis, before she was married, I was 
ridiculously the opposite of poise. I went to 
Hannah McAvoy’s and cried until poor Herb 
thought I was going to fall apart in little pieces, 
and he had to treat me like a child.” 

“Cried over me?” asked Mark, incredulously. 

“Um hum.” 

“You dear thing! But that was long ago.” 

Pauline again smiled wryly. “It was only the 
other night when Phyllis was here that I suffered 
intensely afterward.” 

Mark kised the long fingers. “Don’t, please 
don’t any more. I told you, I’m not going to see 
her any more. But I don’t give in about your 
fineness. You don’t let crude feeling overthrow 
you, you can feel with your mind and spirit, 
whereas so many of us feel just the raw stuff, 
as it comes out of the mud. You know perfectly 
well what a Betty Langdon, for instance, would 
do. She’d fly into a rage if I ever mentioned 
Phyllis. If I came home and told her I’d lunched 
with her—or even met and talked to her on the 
street—she would have stormed and made me 
swear I loved only her. If I met an interesting 
woman, I’d have to explain and explain, and of 
course she would compel me to lie or to be vir¬ 
tually her prisoner. I’ve seen some disgusting 
examples—and not among hare-brained women, 
either, but among intelligent ones.” 


Two Women 


283 


“Most of us, I’m afraid, don’t get enough suf¬ 
fering in love,” replied Pauline, the wry smile 

still present. 

“Good Lord!” flashed back Mark, “that’s 
cool!” 

“It’s the bare, sober truth. Love, as it is un¬ 
derstood by the average, young, sheltered girl, or 
inexperienced woman, is a pretty selfish article. 
It’s even a little bit disgusting, I think. It’s like 
something good to eat or something nice to wear, 
an acquisition. I never come so near to nausea 
as when I behold one of these typical weddings 
with roomfuls of presents, gowns galore, food gal¬ 
ore, and where snobbery, pomp, and material¬ 
ism are thick as a fog. It only needs for me, the 
finishing touch of the usual wedding practical 
jokes to transform the scene into a revolting 
savage orgy, whether the wedding is at St. Thom¬ 
as ’ or over at some gas-lit hall on the Bowery. 
I’m of Quaker stock, you know, and I suppose 
that’s where I acquired my prejudices, but the 
only marriage ceremony in which I see beauty 
is the Quaker one, where, standing before the 
Meeting, the pair casually join hands and in one 
short sentence take the vow.” 

“But what’s all that got to do with the need 
of suffering in love?” 

“Because such weddings are so expressive of 
the crudeness of the average person’s love 
ideas,” replied Pauline. “Love is a house with 


254 


Two Women 


new furniture in it; love is a husband and your 
support assured for life; love is your wealth 
and social status set; love is luscious fruit, cake 
and ambrosia. But love isn’t anything of the 
kind. Nobody values anything until they pay for 
it, and nobody loves something until they suffer 
for it. Love isn’t really born until suffering for 
it begins.” 

‘‘Pauline! You talk like an oracle! You must 
have thought a lot about it.” 

“I have. What else do you suppose is behind 
the ‘poise’ you speak of—such poise as I’ve real¬ 
ly got? It’s been a struggle for me from an im¬ 
possible beginning. Did you see me smile wryly 
when you spoke of poise? It wasn’t only be¬ 
cause of those occasions I mentioned when I was 
not poised—it’s my whole history, Mark.” 

Pauline was sitting at the little gate-leg table 
before the fireplace, in a wicker chair. She 
poured a cup of tea and leaned back with the 
cup and saucer in her hand, obviously in a mood 
to talk about herself. In the half light the yel¬ 
low Sevres China cup gathered a point of light 
that gave the quality of opalescence to the chair 
and its occupant. 

“You needn’t feel you owe me any light on 
your past,” interposed Mark, with a gracious 
smile. 

“Having talked like a lady with a past—all 
ladies with pasts have suffered, with a capital S, 


Two Women 


255 


you have noticed, no doubt—why, I’m bound to 
throw a little light on it.” 

“Be careful, now,” smiled Mark, “I do not 
forget that you are a fiction editor! And by the 
way, before we get along with this, I meant to 
ask you—how does it happen that a little Quaker 
lady is a fiction editor, an amateur painter in oil, 
and artistic in her every thought, gesture and 
surrounding ? ’ ’ 

“You answer yourself, Inquisitor,” responded 
Pauline. “Being of Quaker origin, where music, 
imagination, color and beauty of form are taboo, 
it should be quite clear to you that I would tend, 
if I had a chance, to be the opposite. Don’t you 
know life well enough yet to realize that we po¬ 
larize with the opposite; that we repel the like 
and seek the unlike?” 

“Oh, I see, the preacher’s son becomes the 
traditional scalawag; the son of the village 
butcher, the opera star! Very well, I’m in¬ 
formed; no further light needed. It was stupid 
of me. Go on.” 

“It’s when one is a very young girl that jeal¬ 
ousy is at its highest,” continued Pauline. “In 
fact, they say it’s dangerous to goad a girl of 
twelve or fourteen too far in the direction of 
jealousy; there is nothing she’ll stop at, and it 
literally consumes her. I suppose it makes a 
difference how sensitive your nervous system 
is. I was a frightfuly jealous little creature. It 


256 


Two Women 


was one series of pains—at home, in the atten¬ 
tions my older sister got, at school in the pre¬ 
ferment others got. I’ve never had such murder¬ 
ous thoughts before or since. I even took poison 
and left a long letter behind, but they pumped 
it out of me double quick.” 

“You poor child!” exclaimed Mark. 

“Perhaps it might be entertaining some time 
to tell you the whole series of tales. The suicide 
plan was of course, because of jealousy of my 
sister. She was my mother’s favorite and my 
father’s favorite and from her childhood until 
college days I had listened to their adoration of 
Helen’s cute little tricks, their favoring her with 
endearments, presents, clothes and trips.” 

“What a bitter pill to give a little girl!” 

“Oh well, don’t pity me—it made me! You’ll 
hardly understand perhaps how this condition 
acted as a schoolmaster so powerful that I taught 
myself—mine was the teacherless school, except 
for the awful ferule of jealousy. Helen was 
prodded to show off her accomplishments, and 
lazily refused or went through them haphazardly. 
I, stung by neglect, spurred on by jealousy, drove 
myself to do far better than Helen what Helen 
only indifferently performed, refused to per¬ 
form.” 

“And I suppose she got high praise for med¬ 
iocre performances, and you no praise for per¬ 
fect performances,” commented Mark, darkly. 


Two Women 


257 


“It tended that way,” admitted Panline. “But 
keep your mind on what all this did for me. I 
was beyond my years. I thirsted with a pas¬ 
sionate thirst for knowledge, because I wanted 
the praise it would bring. My parents were 
Quakers of the newer sect—Hicksites—and they, 
of course, valued music and art and literature 
to a high degree although my grandparents and 
many neighbors didn’t. So they didn’t have to 
prod me to practice on the piano, or study! 
While they coaxed petulant Helen in vain, I fair¬ 
ly flew to the piano. But somehow they just mat- 
ter-of-factly expected this of me, and I was al¬ 
ways starving for love and appreciation. 

“I’m going to slur all the college years, be¬ 
cause there for the first time I got appreciation 
in my studies, but frustration and jealousy spur¬ 
red me like a fatality while I was trying to con¬ 
quer it. I was just out of college when the most 
desperate situation of my life came about. I was 
forced into it, I am quite sure now, by this de¬ 
mon jealousy and my starved feelings. 

“I had had few men friends at college. I had 
never been able to hold any boy friends away 
from Helen, for she always, as if by divine right, 
took anything or everything I possessed. And I 
ran from a real contest with her—I couldn’t 
stand it; I had defeat by her bred into me. To 
this day, if she should come here and do me an 
injustice I don’t believe I could defend myself. 


258 


Two Women 


But I’m straying. I was studying too hard, and 
had developed too few social graces at college 
to have any particularly close men friends, so 
that when Arthur Eames came along and liked 
me, I just—well, plain gushed. I was overcome. 
My friends told me he was not worthy, my par¬ 
ents raised their eyebrows when I brought him 
home, and then came the bitter climax. His 
mother came to me. She was prominent in wo¬ 
men’s club work and very suave. She had heard 
so much about me from Arthur that she felt she 
could come to me and rely on my help. Arthur’s 
career as a lawyer must not be enda/igered. He 
would simply never be admitted to the bar if he 
fell in love now. I must give him up. He had 
a fondness for women, and he was already thirty 
and had not yet been admitted to the bar. Fall¬ 
ing in love would set him back another five years 
—maybe cause entire failure. The logic was 
faulty, but I believed her and in a burst of senti¬ 
ment I said I’d do what I could. I was miser¬ 
able, but imagine how much more so when on in¬ 
quiring more closely about both Arthur and his 
mother I found that his mother was insanely 
jealous of any woman in whom Arthur interested 
himself, and usually managed to shoo them off 
by some hocus pocus. She was a widow, and she 
adored him, and apparently meant to keep him 
from other women. 


Two Women 


259 


“Mother complex stuff”, muttered Mark, fol¬ 
lowing the story closely. 

“Yes—only I didn’t know a mother complex 
from a Byzantine marble then—worse luck for 
me! If only I had known abont snch a thing—hut 
I never even knew that Freud existed. Yon can 
imagine what effect the news of his mother’s 
jealousy did to me—prepared by a life-time of 
jealous torture. I became obsessed with a mad, 
ferocious determination to marry that man; to 
‘down’ that mother.” 

“You poor fool!” exclaimed Mark, round¬ 
eyed with compassion. 

“I listened to nobody; I dropped my few 
friends—I had no time for them. I concen¬ 
trated on Arthur. I told him what his mother 
had asked me, and he agreed to meet me in 
secret despite her. Right there—” 

“Yes, right there,” aggressively put in Mark; 
“the damned cad!” 

“Right there I should have taken warning: 
from the fact that he was too weak at thirty to 
resist his mother openly; but I didn’t. We went 
right on, for many weeks I felt as though I were 
a criminal with detectives watching me. I—” 

“Why?” demanded Mark, getting excited. 

“His mother suspected him, and she suspec¬ 
ted me; so she would call up in a masked voice 
on the telephone and ask for me on evenings 
when Arthur wasn’t with her, to see if I, too, 


260 


Two Women 


was out. She would ‘ chance’ to walk past my 
house, she had friends pump me; she tried to 
injure me socially and in business, and—” 

“Good God, the woman was crazy!” 

“She made Arthur take her or some girl she 
selected, to all the best events in town, to which 
I was yearning to go. I had the choice of stav¬ 
ing at home, or going there and eating my heart 
out with jealousy seeing him with other women 
and all but ignoring me. 

“You can imagine that I welcomed the idea 
almost with relief and regarded it as a clever 
triumph, when he proposed secret marriage.’’ 

Mark got up and walked about, smoking furi¬ 
ously. He stopped in front of her. “And did 
you do it?” he demanded. 

Pauline smiled wanly. “Don’t jump me ahead 
of my story,” she said, setting down the cup and 
saucer she had been holding. 

“Mark, we planned to come to New York and 
be married here. He came to New York first, 
for several months, (the idea being his mother’s 
to get him away from me,) and then I went on. 
The very first night I came he had a party of 
friends of his own choosing, and I was aghast. 
It wasn’t a case of a small-city prude meeting 
cosmopolitan New Yorkers for the first time. I 
had been in New York before, but I had never 
met closely the crude, coarse types Arthur had 
found. In fact they were relatives. It was a 


Two Women 


261 


circle of liquor merchants, wholesale butchers 
and cheap restauranteurs—and I suspect, race¬ 
track touts in addition. I couldn’t understand 
at all—Arthur seemed to enjoy himself perfectly. 
A cold shiver slowly went down my spine as 1 
suspected the truth—that this was another Mid¬ 
summer Night’s Dream and I was discovering 
that my lover in the cold, gray light of the morn¬ 
ing after, had long ears. You’ll think me a 
blind little fool—but remember that that mother 
had incited me to blind passion, and it prevented 
me from being discriminating. I stuck it out 
two weeks, while I tried to adjust my emotions 
and my ideas. I had wit enough to refuse to 
marry him until my mind was clearer, but Mark, 
I’ll admit that—that—once or twice—” 

“Oh, hell, I know. No discredit to you—lucky 
it wasn’t a far worse mess. Go on.” 

“I knew it couldn’t matter to you; a woman’s 
so sensitive about such things that she usually 
never tells, and the best advice is that she should 
not tell. But you’re different.” 

“Go on, go on,” said Mark, impatiently. 

“At the end of two weeks I simply did the real 
story-book thing; pinnpd a note on the dresser 
and disappeared. I stayed in New York—I 
couldn’t go home and face a thousand I-told-you- 
so’s and the triumphant look of his mother. I 
had even flung up my job rather discourteously 
by not giving decent notice, and I would have 


262 


Two Women 


hadvto start all over again, so why not start here 
thought IV’ 

11 Good thought, I’ll say,” muttered Mark. 

“So we come back to where I started,” con¬ 
cluded Pauline, rising and stretching her arms, 
“that I know something about jealousy from 
suffering it, and I find that because I suffered 
it, I thought about it, and in thinking about it 
I learned some things about it.” 

“Well, keep right on and tell them to me,” 
encouraged Mark, looking at her with new re¬ 
spect and devotion. 

“No, Mark, I really must clear the things 
away. You forget I told you Courtney Wilkin¬ 
son is coming tonight to talk over his new serial 
which we may buy.” 

“Oh!” chaffed Mark, “you’re going to give 
me an object lesson in jealousy instead of a talk! 
Courtney Wilkinson! Well, well! Must you 
close deals for fiction in your apartment?” 

Pauline threw back her head on the way to the 
kitchen and gave him a look of relish and joy, 
as he had hoped she would, the joy she so rarely 
if ever, had had in her life, of having someone 
jealous of her! 

“I hope the chap will do his business and get 
oil early,” continuel Mark, watching her narrow- 

iy- 

“Indeed! and why? He can stay as long as 
he likes. He’s very nice!” Pauline was quite 


Two Women 


263 


child-like in her frank relish, and coquetry 
sprang spontaneously from every joint in her 
body as she pirouetted before him, with the salt 
and pepper shakers in her hand. 

“What’s he like?” pursued Mark. “His pic¬ 
tures would indicate he’s something of a near¬ 
sighted fat-head.” 

Pauline’s laugh rang high-pitched and gleeful. 
“What nonsense! WTiy he’s not much older 
than you are! Mark Stockman, I believe you’re 
jealous!” Her cheek was colored with excite¬ 
ment. 

“Well,” growled Mark, avoiding her eyes, 
“what if I am? Let me help you with those 
dishes.” 

In the narrow confines of the kitchen, Pauline 
kissed her dish-drying helper, several very snug- 
gly kisses, and sang very happily at her task, 
while Mark’s eyes were suspiciously moist. 


CHAPTER XIX 


With his feet cocked on the fender, and going 
through the newspapers, Mark, several months 
later, was passing the evening comfortably in 
Pauline’s rooms. Pauline was reading a file of 
manuscripts from her black leather grip. Once 
a week, usually twice a week, Pauline’s dutv— 
delightful or onerous, as may be the point of 
view—was to read such stories as the assis¬ 
tant readers had selected as worthy of the fiction 
editor’s time, from fifty or sixty per day that 
arrived in the mails. 

The evening was still in its teens, so to speak, 
and Mark had been made particulary complacent 
by means of Pauline’s one culinary pride—spag¬ 
hetti, not a la Italienne, but a la Spanish. It 
was a dish she made when she felt a little dis¬ 
gusted with life, for the occupation of her hands 
at a special dish seemed to bring back, through 
contact with simpler, inanimate things, her 
wonted mellowness. The publisher and editor 
had been particularly fussy that day, for the 
usual reason: irritation at not being able to 
264 


Two Women 


265 


buy the very best of fiction with a very narrow 
editorial purse. So they had abjured Pauline to 
the point of irritation, to look sharp for stories 
of unusual kind from unknown, therefore cheap¬ 
er authors, since the well known, or even mode¬ 
rately well known authors, whose stories were 
at all possible in such a magazine as the Mirror, 
asked two to five times as much money as could 
be afforded. Pauline had fought back sharply 
during that day and demanded money to buy, 
commensurate with their expectations from her. 

Pauline, good company even when thus dourly 
employed at the odd assortment of manuscripts, 
flecked the air at intervals with comments on the 
tales. 

“Listen to this Mark: ‘I will kill you/ he said 
cruelly, stroking his splendid blonde moustache, 
with narrowed eyes.’ ‘I love you when you say 
that; Claudia replied, her chest heavingP ” 

Mark chuckled appreciatively. “You’re read¬ 
ing fiction; I’m reading fact. Listen to this: 
‘Bride Robs Husband on Honeymoon!’ Oh, you 
wonderful daughters of Eve! And what a fan¬ 
tastic contrast to your little bon mot!” 

“Delicious!” laughed Pauline, with her rip¬ 
pling nervous soprano. 

A little later: “Oh, Mark, another literary dis¬ 
covery! This story entitled ‘God Punishes’ has 
a note pinned to it from the author. ‘Wrote 
this in prison. I am a kleptomaniac. This 


266 


Two Women 


story is True to Life—it is my own heartblood. 
You must not publish my real name as author, 
for I must Live It Down. I solemnly swear that 
with the royalties on this story I will pay back 
the thousand dollar’s worth I have taken.’ ” 

“Royalties!” laughed Mark, “and a thousand 
dollars? Say, how does such trash get to you? 
Don’t your readers keep the impossible stuff 
away from you?” 

“Last week,” replied Pauline, “I gave instruc¬ 
tions that anything the least bit unusual should 
be held back for me to see. Lucy thought this 
unusual, I suppose—and so it is!” 

“Well, tell her to use a little sense,” commen¬ 
ted Mark, a bit crustily, “your eyes—” 

At this point the telephone bell rang. Pauline 
answered. 

“Why, yes, he is!” she said—and used as 
Mark was to every inflection of her voice, Mark 
instantly detected something unusual. 

“Very well. But—is—isn’t this Phyllis ?” 

Pauline asked, in an awkward tone. 

“I see—I’ll get him at once.” Covering the 
mouthpiece with her hand, she said, “Mark, 
Phyllis wants you. I’m—sure—something is the 
matter.” Mark instantly rose. 

“At the New York Hospital! What?—all 
right! I’ll come over at once.” 

Mark thrust himself into an overcoat and was 
about to dart out without a word. 


Two Women 


267 


“Mark! What do you mean, running away like 
that! What’s the matterV* called Pauline, with 
a tense face. 

“I don’t know! I don’t know a thing! She’s 
in the New York Hospital right near here. I 
must go at once.” Mark’s face was moving 
spasmodically and his eyes were blazing as he 
turned and went out. 

At the hospital he was shown into a private 
room. Jimmy was there, sitting hunched for¬ 
ward in a chair at the bedside. He rose quickly 
and smiled a distrait smile of welcome. Phyllis, 
with a chalk-white face and unnaturally brilliant 
eyes smiled a feeble but earnest welcome as 
Mark took the handkerchief-laden hand she prof¬ 
fered. 

“I’m going out for a walk now,” said Jim¬ 
my to Mark. “Phyllis has had a terrible time of 
it, this past week, and felt she wanted to see 
you.” “Anything I can bring you, dear?”— 
turning to Phyllis. She shook her head. 

When he had gone, Mark rather dazedly drew 
up his chair, while Phyllis very cautiously shif¬ 
ted her position so that her head was turned to¬ 
ward him. Little embarrassed side glances from 
her eyes, as she kept the covers up and adjusted 
her boudoir cap, winged shafts of the old emo¬ 
tion into Mark’s heart. He reached for her 
hand and she yielded it freely. He checked him¬ 
self from asking feverishly what had happened, 


268 


Two Women 


as he recalled her condition, and thought it more 
delicate to let her tell. 

For a few moments she simply looked at him; 
but in those few moments vast spaces of maid¬ 
enly reserve, of pride and of conventional out¬ 
look were traversed by her. 

“I can’t talk very loud,” she said, in subdued 
tones, “or I’ll soon exhaust myself, and I don’t 
want to have to stop.” 

“Never mind,” said Mark, “I’m not so nosey 
as to want to hear all the news at once. It’s 
good just to be here to help cheer you.” 

Again she looked at him for a few moments 
before speaking. He had not the faintest idea of 
what she was going to tell him, and to step over 
that threshhold was for her like stepping off into 
space. But an inner form peculiar to her tri¬ 
umphed; triumphed even with dignity. 

“Mark, I almost died—yes, really and truly. 
I’ve been here for four or five days. I really 
don’t know how many; I don’t know what day 
ofi;he week it is .... It was a premature birth: 
It was born dead.” Phyllis’ lip trembled. 

Mark pressed her hand. “I’m sorry,” was all 
he could find to say. 

“But I didn’t ask for you just to tell you 
this,” she said, her eyes widening unnaturally. 
“You know, I called for you repeatedly when I 
was unconscious,” she continued, somewhat ir¬ 
relevantly. 


Two Women 


269 


“You did!” Mark stirred and stiffened. 
“Why didn’t someone tell me?” he demanded 
with a heavy frown. 

“The doctors wouldn’t have let you see me,” 
replied Phyllis, a sweet, slow smile on her lips 
as she watched him. “Even Jimmy was barred 
out a great part of the time . . . Mark, such a 
time, when one is near death, in pain, and is 
unconscious, wholly or partly, and under an¬ 
aesthetics, is a terrible X-ray on one’s life, ideas 
and feelings. I’ve read superficially of such 
things, but to experience it is very different. 
I’ll never be the same.” 

“You’ll be all right again, never fear,” com¬ 
forted Mark, stroking her hand. 

Again a slow, sweet smile. 

“No,” she repeated, “never. You don’t know 
me, even. I hardly recognize myself ... I dis¬ 
covered during these days that I loved you.” 
She said it without change of tone, with no 
change of expression and without a gesture. 

For a second or two Mark sat quite still. 
Then he rose as if catapulted out of his chair, 
dropping her hand, taking a step backward and 
then at once, again forward. The blood rushed 
to his face, and he was speechless, but his lips 
moved without sound. 

“Don’t you think you are—are not well enough 
to talk?” he said rapidly and half-chokinolv. He 


270 


Two Women 


was plainly dubious as to whether or not she 
was in delirium. 

But his confusion was the best of tonics for 
Phyllis, and she shifted her position, disposed 
of her braid and smiled again. 

“Oh, it’s so good to have told you!” she said 
with a great sigh. “I was afraid I was going 
to die without having told you. Could there be 
anything more terrible than to die without let¬ 
ting one you love, know? I knew it while I was 
being brought to the hospital and when the doc¬ 
tor’s serious face and the premature time told 
me I was going to—” 

“But, my God, Phyllis!” burst out Mark, his 
tones vivid with emotion and crackling under im¬ 
perfect control, “what are you saying? This 
isn’t real, this is—this is—” 

“IPs true!” cried Phyllis, holding out her 
hand to him; her spirits and strength gaining in 
precise ratio to his show of feeling. Then, arch¬ 
ly, “don’t you love me any more?” 

Perspiration gathered on Mark’s forehead—it 
always had a way of doing so when he was under 
heavy stress; and his eyes almost leaped from 
their sockets. His answer was forced from his 
lips by something other than his mind which 
was ruthlessly crushed and swept aside. He 
seized her hand and got upon his knees at her 
bedside. “I do! I do!” he cried, and to his 
complete embarrassment he broke into tears 


Two Women 


271 


which he wiped upon her hand in an absent- 
minded, tortured manner. Her very nearness 
was an intolerable thing, intolerable in its sweet¬ 
ness and revelation, mingled with the impossibil¬ 
ity of touching her and thus making upon him¬ 
self some fiercely emotional, concrete impres¬ 
sion of reality. To look into her eyes and read 
there tenderness, love, and not the pre-occupied 
disdain, even sometimes annoyance to which for 
so long he had been accustomed, was for a con¬ 
demned soul suddenly to have the gates of Para¬ 
dise swing beckoningly upon him. It distorted 
him with exquisite pain, and he wept on without 
being able to stop. When she put her hand on 
his head he grew faint, and when she let her 
hand fall from his head over his brow and 
cheek, he could not endure it. He rose, gath¬ 
ered both her hands, kissed them avidly, and 
then strode half madly about the room. Order, 
logic, reality, were teetering upon their bases 
for him and the world had suddenly become an 
insane cubistic pattern. He chilled to the mar¬ 
row before the cold blasts of logic and fact that 
blew in upon him when he permitted his mind 
to function, and shriveled and blistered before 
the flames which were roaring in his heart. 

“I haven’t told you the hardest part,” said 
Phyllis, quietly. He came to her side and sat 
down. I 

“Although I wouldn’t admit I was in love 


272 


Two Women 


with you, I have been terribly jealous of you for 
months. I’ve been a revelation to myself in that 
way, too—a despicable revelation. Mark, the 
knowledge that you and Pauline were very close 
nearly unseated my reason. I’ve done things I 
never would have dreamed any woman could do 
—you’ll despise me when I tell you. Mark, I’ve 
written you dozens of letters and never mailed 
them, some mean ones, some lovely ones. I’ve 
spied on you; I’ve actually come up to the land¬ 
ing of Pauline’s house and through the door 
listened to you two talk and laugh, and gone 
away again bitter and upset and miserable— 
but still attributing it to something else than 
love. I’ve plotted to discredit Pauline; I’ve 
called her all kinds of things, and I’ve thrown 
into the fire the only photograph of her I 
owned.” 

“Phyllis, my dear,” said Mark, gently, ‘ i don’t 
you think you’ve talked enough? You-” 

“Mo, I want to talk,” cried Phyllis. “It was 
holding it back that hurt me.” 

“We’ve got some terribly serious talking to 
do, but we can’t do it tonight.” 

“The serious parts are all over, now that 
I’ve told you,” replied Phyllis with a peculiarly 
happy smile and cupping her hand in his in a 
manner that was threatening to loosen all his 
control. But the mention of Pauline’s name 
had sobered him to whitefaced seriousness. 


Two Women 


273 


“I must marry you as soon as ever this mess 
can be unsnarled/’ he said, his own voice sound¬ 
ing strange as he spoke, and the word “traitor!” 
hissing into his mind’s ear. “Have you spoken 
to Jimmy about this all—and a divorce!” 

Phyllis laughed an unnatural laugh. “Spoken 
to Jimmy? Of course not! I’m not going to 
ask him for a divorce. Oh, I wish it could have 
been different, Mark, but it’s too late now. I 
am his wife. We will have to be in love only 
spiritually, I’m afraid.” 

Mark’s heart almost missed a beat, and a 
clammy sense of torture overcame him. 

“Phyllis!” he spoke sternly. “That is non¬ 
sense! I can’t believe you mean it! You belong 
to me, and this Jimmy person”—he almost 
hissed the words—“will have to step out of the 
way at once. Fortunately we’re both still young, 
and we can soon undo a wrong marriage and 
make a real one.” 

“I love to have you say it, Mark, but—it’s 
impossible! Don’t you see, he married jne in 
full faith. I have no right to complain. He was 
my choice and—and I’ve always hated divorce; 
despised it!” 

“I can’t help what you’ve hated and de¬ 
spised!” answered Mark, angry and tense. 
“This is folly, idiocy, and I won’t have it. Tell 
him as soon as possible, and insist on his ar¬ 
ranging for a divorce.” 


274 


Two Women 


Phyllis was not even listening to what he 
said; she was drinking in his strong feeling, his 
positiveness, his vigor. It was a nectar for 
which she was famishing. 

Mark took her abstracted air for weariness, 
and he was smitten with remorse. “Don’t let’s 
argue this tonight, I repeat,” he said, gently. 
“I’m sure the nurses will be firing me out. 
Hadn’t I better go? I’ll come in to see you 
every day. Do they let you eat fruit?” 

“Yes,” she smiled. “Jimmy’s brought some 
today. Come in about two o’clock tomorrow, 
will you?” 

Mark departed into the night and he felt as 
if he had suddenly been transplanted to another 
planet. As he directed his footsteps toward 
Pauline’s, however, an increasing sense of de¬ 
pression and complication overcame him. He 
almost wished he were going instead to his own 
rooms, alone. 

Pauline was still reading manuscripts. 

“Phyllis has been in the hospital for five days 
—was near death—premature birth; baby’s 
dead,” he hurriedly explained in answer to Paul¬ 
ine’s alarmed solicitude. 

“Isn’t that dreadful!” exclaimed Pauline, her 
hand raised in a gesture of concern. “But— 
why in the world did she send for you tonight?” 

“She got lonesome and thought I could come 
tonight in place of Jimmy’s usual visit,” ex- 


Two Women 


275 


plained Mark, with an effort. “He had to be 
away tonight .’ 9 

“Funny, she ignored me so markedly,” com¬ 
mented Pauline. “Why didn’t she invite me, 
too?” 

“Oh, I suppose with all those nurses, she 
was sick of women around her,” gayly ans¬ 
wered Mark, a lead weight on his heart and 
conscience. His torture increased as he realized 
that he could not dare omit one small item in 
his usual affectionate repertoire with Pauline 
without bringing the very hurt upon her from 
which he most desparately wished to save her. 
In his brutal directness he wished he could tell 
her everything; but the hospital scene seemed 
to him still something mad and fantastic, and 
needed verification and digestion before any 
act predicated on it could become reasonable. 


CHAPTER XX 


In one of his novels Leonard Merrick indulges 
in the remark that women idealize their pos¬ 
sessors, while men idealize only those they seek 
to possess. 

Mark’s reactions during the few weeks fol¬ 
lowing threw some corroborative light on this 
sapiency, for, under the gargantuan struggle 
going on within him, he veered more than once 
to a position of repulsion to Phyllis. At such 
times the prismatic, endless charm she had 
always had for him grayed down to a drab 
thing bereft of attraction, and the radiance 
seemed to shift to Pauline with a rich effulgence 
which apparently was beyond Phyllis’ power to 
match. He would, in his suffering, argue with 
himself and endeavor to compare the incom¬ 
parable: match the tine-textured spirituality of 
Pauline’s mellow mind and spirit with the more 
pagan appeal of Phyllis. With his mind he 
would heap garlands of appreciation before 
Pauline’s image; appreciation of her mental and 
spiritual qualities, the blend and temper of a 
276 


Two Women 


277 


steel blade finished in the forge—and still they 
would make an unfavorable contrast to Phyllis ’ 
image. Over the highest heap of such garlands 
of mental and spiritual appreciation as he might 
feelingly bestow upon Pauline there always 
leaped with ease a powerful incandescent arc 
of something unintelligible, electric, subcon¬ 
scious. Phyllis’ unfinished state, indeed, cried 
out to Mark to mould her. His very fingers 
ached with the desire to seize the beautiful clay 
and shape it, with an artist’s ecstasy of crea¬ 
tion. Phyllis represented to Mark a Grecian 
form, single and obvious. Pauline was complete, 
satisfying, richly mature and therefore partook 
of the quality of oldness and fulfillment, whereas 
Phyllis was enveloped in the mists of Eden, of 
unformed destiny, of imaginative possibility, of 
arresting curiosity and suspense. She had still 
to him, in spite of events, the intangible appeal 
of the virgin; he had still for her the desire to 
awaken, to lave in the warm dawn of her pas¬ 
sion, which instinctively he knew still to be dor¬ 
mant; to impregnate and surcharge her with his 
super-abundant energy and purpose. 

He took flowers or fruit or books to the hos¬ 
pital daily for ten days and spent the time with 
her gossiping of current things, for she was 
eager for news and talk; and in badinage. At 
first he indulged in his teasing and playing solely 
as a contribution to her convalescence. Play- 


278 


Two Women 


fulness had become second nature to him, by as¬ 
sociation with Pauline; he had hardly realized 
his far migration in temperament from other 
days in this respect, until Phyllis spoke of it 
one afternoon. Mark’s staccato impression of 
newness and interest was the outstanding idea in 
her mind. 

“ You ’re so different , Mark! No wonder I 
couldn’t warm to you long ago! Don’t you know 
you were a frightfully serious owl in those days I 
I rarely heard a laugh from you! And now, 
why, you’re like a puppy, so playful! I used 
to think I was gayer and lighter than you—but 
now! ’ ’ 

Mark was silent, for once more he knew that 
he must pay tribute to Pauline to whose tut¬ 
elage he knew he owed this and so many other 
new transfiguration in his character. 

“You’re my daily tonic now,” continued Phil¬ 
lis—“and I lie here and laugh hours after 
you’re gone, at some of the things we’ve said. 
The nurses catch me at it sometimes, and I’m 
sure they think I’m queer.” 

“I burn incense now before Momus, the God 
of Laughter,” replied Mark, lightly. “I used 
to favor Bacchus slightly, but, poor chap, he 
was thrust out of heaven with a sword by the 
archangel Volstead—” and moving up to the 
bed, he kissed her hand. “I’m smitten now, 
not with what Pindar called the arrow of the 


Two Women 


279 


vine, but with another kind of arrow, and damn 
it, it is barbed!” 

Phyllis laughingly ruffled his hair. He in¬ 
finitely wanted her to do this, and was in dread 
when she did it. His desire to kiss her was 
something overwhelming, but he had refrained 
—hardly knowing just why, explaining it as 
inappropriate, but sometimes suspecting it was 
a species of a fear arising from his still tur¬ 
bulent confusion of heart and soul. 

He had steadfastly refrained from any further 
talk about the future, perhaps also shrinking 
from an issue which he felt it excruciating to 
face. His conscious self reasoned that it was 
inconsiderate to talk about such matters on a 
sickbed. 

When Phyllis was finally recovered and back 
at home, the situation became, as he knew it 
would, more awkward than ever. He had come 
to love his tete-a-tetes with her, for with the 
sick-bed prohibition of anything but the most 
casual love-making, he had been able to teeter 
between Phyllis and Pauline with no great dif¬ 
ficulty. Pauline had also come to the hospital 
occasionally, sometimes with Mark. The whole 
matter, up to this time, had been held in status 
quo without demoralization. 

Now the issue must be faced. He could 
scarcely keep his mind upon his work at the 
office. Suddenly, in the midst of high concen- 


280 


Two Women 


tration on a piece of work, a thought of Pauline 
or Phyllis would interpose itself and work was 
a cooked fig until he succeeded in ejecting the 
subject almost by force. Strong love emotion 
can in a trice dissolve a man’s most elaborate of 
abstract structures, as a gun-shot scatters a 
flock of birds. Even his sleep was invaded with 
strange phantasmagoria, dreams of dismember¬ 
ment and queer adventures in oppressive places. 
He resolved to see Phyllis at once. She had invited 
him—a little self-consciously—to tea any day. 

There was a faint but definite constraint in 
their manner when the door closed upon Mark, 
and he has in her apartment. He again merely 
kissed her hands. Phyllis, woman-like, had paid 
especial attention to both her own and her liv¬ 
ing-room’s appearance when she learned he was 
coming, but Mark’s attention was not divertable 
to small matters. 

“How do you like my place!” asked Phyllis. 

‘‘Very nice, very nice indeed,” replied Mark, 
rather mechanically. 

“And how do you like my new batik blouse! 
Very nice, very nice indeed!” Phyllis imitated 
his answer in the same mechanical tone, without 
waiting for his answer. They both laughed, 
which was helpful. 

“Phyllis, this whole thing has me twisted 
like a wild apple root,” said Mark, “and I want 


Two Women 


281 


it settled. When can yon and I decently get 
married?” 

Phyllis gasped at the uncompromising speed 
and directness of his questioning. 

“Must we talk about that?” she asked, with 
evident distress. 

Mark looked at her for a moment, saw that 
she was apparently happy and in raised spirits 
in his presence. 

“Yes,” he said, “we must, Phyllis, I don’t 
understand you—I truly don’t. You-” 

A peal of laughter came from Phyllis’ lips, 
and coquetry from her manner. “I thought 
you understood me so wonderfully?‘” 

“All right—I give up. I don’t understand 
you,” said Mark, “but that’s why I’m here. 
I must try to understand you, and you, me. 
Now, you sit down here in this chair and make 
yourself comfortable, and I’ll stand up if you 
don’t mind.” 

Phyllis did as bidden, smiling a little at the 
novelty of being bossed around in her own 
house. The sensation was not displeasing, how¬ 
ever. There was something agreeably new and 
fascinating in the rough, imperative burr of 
Mark’s voice, his decisive tread, his confident 
bearing. Mark brought a hassock, lifted Phyl¬ 
lis’ feet on it—and unable to resist, lightly 
kissed her ankles as he did so. Phyllis, with an 
unconscious recoil of modesty, pulled down her 



282 


Two Women 


skirts a little farther. Mark’s own composure 
over the little liberty puzzled her and increased 
her realization that he had surely added con¬ 
siderable poise, for in other days he could never 
have carried the thing off without the furious, 
flashing red which she remembered came to his 
face on small provocation. 

“I want you to have it out with Jimmy at 
once and start the process of making you free 
to marry me,” said Mark, flatly. 

“Oh, don’t spoil a lovely afternoon with me 
—the first you’ve had with me here in my 
house—by talking such impossibilities,” pleaded 
Phyllis. 

“Impossibilities!” Mark stopped short in his 
walk, hands in pockets. He planted himself 
before her, wide-eyed. He opened his mouth 
to speak, but for a moment words did not come. 

“Phyllis,” he said, with restrained tensity, 
“I love you, and I want to do what people in 
love do—I want to marry you.” 

“Do people in love always marry!” parried 
Phyllis, looking at him with obvious desire to 
tease and temporize. “If I understand the 
modern realistic school of thinkers, they think 
marriage kills love, that love and marriage are 
not the Siamese twins they’re reputed to be 
by the Victorians. And you such a realist!” 

“Good!” snapped Mark. “If you’re not a 
Victorian yourself, that makes you easier to 


Two Women 


283 


talk to. I had always thought you were still 
somewhat Victorian. A realist believes, first 
and last, in sincere facing of facts. I’m a realist, 
all right. Now, you say you love me—will you 
face the facts like a good little realist and brush 
aside the unrealities, and marry me!” 

“Not so fast!” teased Phyllis. “As a realist, 
I don’t want to marry you, because there’s a 
very real existing marriage in the way. You—” 

“Sophistry!” exclaimed Mark, impatiently. 
“Your marriage isn’t real. It isn’t even honest 
any longer. The realistic thing to do is to break 
it off and make it right by marrying me. How 
can you possibly think of doing otherwise!” 

Phyllis avoided his intent, direct gaze. 

“Oh, I don’t even understand myself very 
well, I suppose,” she replied in gray tones. 
“Don’t you see-” 

“I want an answer,” interrupted Mark, “to 
the question: do you still love Jimmy!” 

“Why—why, of course I do!” 

“I must have misunderstood you, then” re¬ 
plied Mark stiffly; “I thought you said you 
loved me.” 

“I do! I do!” exclaimed Phyllis, very much 
troubled. “Oh, why do you drag me into such 
a discussion!” 

Mark’s sense of humor was here triumphant. 
He laughed; not a completely releasing laugh, 
but a laugh of the mind, of the wit. 


284 


Two Women 


“Did you ever read the fables of Tantalus 
and Ixion?” he asked. “No? Well, I must tell 
you some of them, some time. I won’t stop for 
it now—but I will ask you whether you realize 
how cruelly tantalizing you are? How ridicu¬ 
lous your logic is?” 

“I do know this,” Phyllis flung back at him, 
coldly, “that you are trying to browbeat me 
with what Lowell once called “the vulgarizing 
tyranny of common sense!’ I confess that what 
I say sounds illogical. I am as much astounded 
at myself as you could be . . . You know well 
enough that this situation would have frozen me 
with shock three years ago. Isn’t it enough 
that I had the courage to tell you I loved you?” 

This time it was Phyllis’ gaze which was di¬ 
rect and unwavering, and Mark who softened 
and weakened. 

“I suppose I am too impatient,” he replied, 
contritely, as he sat down on the arm of another 
big chair. “But where are we going? What are 
we going to do?” 

“But why be so troubled?” asked Phyllis. 

“Troubled!” exclaimed Mark, jumping from 
his perch. “You maddening woman! You in¬ 
carnate fiend of torture! Don’t you know it 
is agony daily and nightly for me until you sep¬ 
arate from this man and marry me? Don’t 
you know I want you for myself? Where are 
your wits and your morals? What-” 


Two Women 


285 


“That will do for today, sir,” said Phyllis, 
flushing deeply and rising, facing an angry 
Mark. 

“Very well, I bid you good day.” Mark ab¬ 
ruptly strode for his hat, coat and stick, and 
left her without a word. But he had not reached 
the pavement before a reaction smote him. He 
went back again, and on knocking was admitted 
by a Phyllis still high in color. 

“I apologize for my rudeness,” he said. 

“I don’t know whether I can forgive it,” she 
said, icily. 

“Try to, because I love you.” said Mark 
painfully. 

Tears came to Phyllis’ eyes. “Come and 
talk to me, then, about something nice and in¬ 
teresting. ’ ’ 

A despairing rebellion gripped Mark, but he 
suppressed it, with an effort of will which was 
now all too easy, after three years of enforced 
practice. He disciplined his feelings, and though 
they lurked in the background and would not 
quit the stage entirely, he stage-managed a lively 
conversation on her favorite topic, politics. They 
disagreed, once more, upon the significance of 
Woodrow Wilson in public life, Phyllis vigor¬ 
ously upholding him as a prophet of interna¬ 
tional unity whose inevitable human traits could 
not, as has happened before in history, stand the 
grossly emotional demands of the herd mind. 


286 


Two Women 


He would, in her opinion be “a man for the 
ages’’. To which Mark satirically objected. 

The hour to leave soon came, and as they 
stood together at the door, Mark found he did 
not know how to say goodbye. He rejected the 
notion of a handshake, yet still he could not vis¬ 
ualize a kiss, much less an embrace, each of 
which seemed all the further away in the light of 
their little quarrel and the bizarre impersonality 
of their later conversation. 

Once again the blessing of humor assisted 
him. He began to laugh quietly. 

“What is the fun?” asked Phyllis. 

“Myself,” smiled Mark. “I don’t know what 
is the proper etiquette for the occasion. I must 
buy me a compendium on decorum! ’ ’ 

“I would agree that you needed one, after this 
afternoon,” said Phyllis with mock severity. 

“But would it tell me,” continued Mark, with 
mock dubiety, “whether you should shake hands 
with a lady you love, or kiss her?” 

“If it were a good book on decorum, it would 
say that under the circumstances you shake 
hands.” 

“But I have never yet kissed you, though we 
say we love each other!” Mark’s tone had a 
gentle reproach in it. 

Phyllis’ eyes wavered, and Mark took her in 
his arms and kissed her. Although he had a 
thousand times dreamed of kissing her; although 


Two Women 


287 


romantic tradition would denote that the kiss 
transported him into rich Elysian fields of bliss, 
the truth was that the kiss was a failure. Psych¬ 
ologically, it was without approach which gives a 
kiss its wonder-value; physically it was too sud¬ 
den, and in actuality it felt as uninspiring as 
kissing an aunt. After an attempt or two he 
struggled poignantly to vivify the kiss, but Phyl¬ 
lis withdrew. Scarcely looking at each other, 
they parted. 

Drawing his lungs full of fresh air, Mark went 
to his rooms with a heavier heart than ever, a 
burden of indecision across his soul which his 
direct, decisive nature despised and abhorred. 
The memory of the kiss was harder to bear than 
all, for it carried with it a disturbing doubt of 
the reality of this thing, love, that they had 
talked about and which apparently was not yet 
real enough even to give relish to a kiss. So 
ran the bitter, warped train of his thought. 

“Pauline would never act so strangely and il- 
logically,” he mused, and the thought of Pauline 
at once lifted his spirits, yet confused him. By 
an instinct of delicacy he did not seek her out 
that evening. He could not look into her eyes. 
Nor could he mentally quite tolerate the idea 
of losing her, whereas his emotional self was 
altogether aware that Phyllis held undisputed 
sway. Yet he was furiously scornful of her ob¬ 
vious refusal to think things out. Constantly 


288 


Two Women 


he made mental comparisons with Panline to the 
disadvantage of Phyllis, and yet constantly he 
rated Phyllis above her in general intellectual 
possibilities. 

“What will Panline say?” he found himself 
saying, half aloud. But he did not make up his 
mind to tell her. He still had a strange sense 
of unreality about Phyllis ’ professed love, a 
feeling which the kiss should have shattered, 
but failed to. He consequently did nothing about 
it, and to his own amazement, when the next 
evening he went over to Pauline’s rooms, he 
caught step with his previous life with her in a 
manner soothingly real and simple. Strife, ir¬ 
ritation, emotional upset all disappeared in the 
sweet reasonableness of Pauline’s companion¬ 
ship, her quick responses and adjustments to his 
moods. With her he had none of the feeling 
of being mauled and thwarted and perplexed. 
He was infinitely grateful to Pauline, and in a 
few days he felt a certain reluctance to make fur¬ 
ther advances to Phyllis. It was only when he 
concentrated upon the thought of her admitted 
love for him, that he had an intense desire to 
tear her from her moorings and realize his 
dearest wish. But that wish was still a chimera, 
apparently, while Pauline was real and near. 
There was no failure in her kisses; he and she 
had learned a thousand ways of giving meaning 
and richness to kisses; had learned to use them 


Two Women 


289 


as decoration to humor, flavor to passion, solace 
to moods, gestures in play and even as words 
and phrases in a shorthand language of com¬ 
munion of meanings. They used kisses as sop¬ 
orifics as well as stimuators, as lullabies as well 
as awakeners. It was to Mark a perennial mar¬ 
vel and fascination to watch the free play of 
Pauline’s impulses and emotion, the untram¬ 
meled expression of herself without the binding 
tyranny of inhibition and taboos, and to realize 
that the resulting lovely ensemble of mind and 
heart was Pauline’s own creation, an evolution 
of mental and spiritual freedom within herself— 
based upon ideas. To have traversed the dis¬ 
tance from hard and fast traditional puritanism 
to the artistry of self-realization which Pauline 
had attained was, to Mark, nothing less than a 
well-orchestrated symphony in human form— 
made all the more appealing by her small human 
idiosyncrasies. He wanted her, he needed her 
for his own growth and for sheer delight. From 
her he wanted to take; to Phyllis he wanted to 
give; and being human, to take was proving 
easier than to give. 




CHAPTER XXI 


It was but a few minutes after Jimmy left for 
the office that the postman rang, and Phyllis 
swiftly descended the stairs. A long manilla 
envelope was sticking ont of the mouth of the 
mail box. 

‘ ‘ Oh, you back again! ’ ’ she scolded aloud at it; 
“I wasn’t looking for you.” And she ripped it 
out so unkindly as to tear the envelope, to see if 
behind it was the extra large size square en¬ 
velope she knew for Mark’s stationery. But 
there was nothing else but a cheaply printed 
card bearing the sickly face of “ George the 
Tailor”, around the corner. 

The return with monotonous promptness, of 
the article from magazines she had most hoped 
might accept it, was depressing enough; for it 
had already been to those few magazines for 
which, in her lingering literary snobbery, she 
still most desired to write. The daily absence, 
for several weeks, of any word or sign from 
Mark, however, disturbed her deeply. She had 
moments when anger blazed in her and, with it* 
290 




Two Women 


291 


strong regret that she had told him she loved 
him. It was to her intolerable that after he had 
so long and so earnestly loved her, he should 
neglect her at the moment when she had con¬ 
fessed her love. 

Desire however acted as anaesthetic to pride, 
and she telephoned him, inviting him to tea. 
He accepted without comment. 

“Perhaps,’’ she commented to herself after 
hanging up the receiver, “he’s been waiting 
for me to write to him, feeling sensitive about 
the situation. Perhaps he’s been suffering be¬ 
cause I haven’t called him. Poor boy! But it 
will show him that I’m not so frightfully head- 
over-heels in love with him!” 

It is always so much easier to do a difficult 
thing the second, or the third, or the fourth time. 
Habit is the very stuff of which life itself is 
formed; for the forms of life are the habits of 
life, and after a time they become like life, inex¬ 
orable. 

Twice, three times, Mark visited Phyllis at 
tea time, on each occasion with an inexpressible 
but perceptible reluctance and a certain discom¬ 
fort; each time at Phyllis’ invitation; each time 
avoiding talk about their relation; each time 
engaging in persiflage, talk on politics and the 
“writing game”, and each time kissing her light¬ 
ly at parting. Mark’s bitter underlying resent¬ 
ment, at the barriers between them was held in 


292 


Two Women 


leash by his devotion to Panline, while his deep 
feeling for Phyllis put him on guard against 
her. It was a torturous position to be in. 
While his mind was basking in the lucent warmth 
and mental stimulus of Pauline, and finding rea¬ 
sons, advantages and gains in giving his love to 
her, his more powerful unconscious self was 
learning by contact, to desire Phyllis more im¬ 
periously than ever. It was a passion to give, 
and as such it was deeper than his mere taking 
from Pauline. This attitude toward Phyllis was 
at the same time aphrodisiacal; though he would 
not permit himself to think of it, he desired to 
touch her more each time that he saw her. 

It was at the end of one of these afternoons 
with Phyllis that he stood up to go and, being 
now at greater ease with her, drew her more in¬ 
formally to him to kiss. Phyllis too, was more 
pliantly at ease; in a moment the kiss, usually so 
short and perfunctory, ushered them into the 
palatial hallways of passion. They kissed as 
neither had ever kissed before, avoiding each 
other’s eyes, their hearts fluttering like garments 
in the summer wind, and their feet seeming to 
leave solid ground and ascend a Peacock Throne. 

The inner clamor of years of yearning welled 
up in Mark. He looked into the face so closely, 
tenderly in his possession, the face in which he 
had so long despaired of seeing even a kindly re¬ 
gard for himself; the face which he had never 


Two Women 


293 


ceased to admit always most dearly represented 
woman to him. All his controls vanished and his 
whole being became lyrical, though he could 
scarcely frame a sentence. 

As for Phyllis, she was suffused with a sweet 
shame, a panicky desire to retreat, and a fear 
at the astounding cataclysm of feeling that had 
overtaken her. But Mark kissed her, hair, face, 
ears, neck and hands. He held her off at arm’s 
length for a moment and then brought her back, 
struggling, to the same devastating kiss, folded 
even more incredibly close in his arms. The 
delirium of it at last frightened her. She fought 
him off and walked to the other side of the 
room, her hand reaching for support to the 
window frame, her back to him. 

“I think you had better go,” she half-whis¬ 
pered. 

“Go!” exclaimed Mark, becoming vocal with 
a burst like matutinal light breaking over the 
horizon with the face of the sun. “Do you 
think, after that, I would slink away like a shame¬ 
faced coward? Come here to me, Phyllis!” 

But she only stirred uneasily. 

“You had better go,” she repeated colorless- 

ly- 

Mark strode to her side. She turned half 
from him. * 

“We can’t go on like this,” exclaimed Mark 
fervently as he put his arm about her. “Come, 


294 


Two Women 


sit down, and let’s think clearly. Good God, I 
love yon beyond all endurance! I’ve been fight¬ 
ing it, but—no use . . . Don’t you love me?” 

Phyllis turned her face to him. It was con¬ 
gested with an unnatural flush, and her eyes 
were full of fear. 

“We mustn’t see each other again,” she re¬ 
plied, her eyes not meeting his; a thing in itself 
a revolution for Phyllis. 

Mark straightened up and his eyes flashed. 
He laid his hands on her shoulders and wheeled 
her somewhat roughly about. 

“I won’t have you say that to me!” he burst 
forth. “What do you mean? We’ve got to see 
each other; we’ve got to have each other for 
always! Don’t delay another day! Don’t you 
love me?” 

Phyllis looked at him for a moment with her 
old steadiness of gaze, but only for a moment. 
Her whole body retreated from his intensity. 

Mark shook her shoulders vehemently. 

“I must have you answer!” he cried. “Say 
it!” 

Phyllis suddenly calmed and laughed. “You 
old bear!” she said affectionately, leaning her 
forehead on his shoulder. “Of course I love 
you!” 

“Then you must leave Jimmy and marry me!” 
insisted Mark, still tense. “When will you do 


Two Women 


295 


it?” He held her off at arm’s length from him, 
rigidly. 

Phyllis looked at his face and grew confused 
and serious. 

44 Oh—I can’t. Don’t ask me!” 

Mark’s face twisted with blended anger and 
pain. 44 Yon can”, he said, 44 this is madness. 
You must.” Mark’s eyes blazed with determin¬ 
ation. 44 Talk to Jimmy tonight.” 

44 No, no!” protested Phyllis with vague alarm. 

44 Why not?” shot back Mark suddenly coming 
to halt in pacing the floor. 

44 Please,” replied Phyllis in distressful tones, 
44 please don’t let’s talk about it.” 

44 You bet we will talk about it!” was Mark’s 
explosive reply, a semi-frenzy seizing him. He 
seized her by the arms, just under the shoulders. 
4 4 Now, you little procrastinator, you take a 
deep breath and tell me once for all whether you 
love me enough to break loose and marry me, or 
I’ll shake it out of you.” His voice was heavy- 
volumed and almost threatening. 

She tried to free herself from him, but he held 
on with an iron grip. 

44 Let me go,” she said coldly. A look into 
Phyllis’ eyes could be, in Richard Le Galliene’s 
words, 44 one long adventure,” but also on oc¬ 
casion an arctic vista as cold as a sea of ice 
floes. 

44 I won’t,” replied Mark, 44 until you make a 


296 


Two Women 


decision. I can’t endnre another hour of this 
torture.” 

“So you’ll torture me in return?” she replied 
sarcastically. 

“ Will you or will you not decide to take steps 
to he able to marry me?” asked Mark, huskily. 
The look she was giving him, so precisely the 
look of scorn with which she had broken his 
morale on previous days, was adding vehemence 
to the flames of his suffering. A part of him 
was standing off from the scene, viewing with 
horror his physical violence upon the object of 
his love. 

Phyllis grew intensely indignant. “Let me 
go, I say!” she exclaimed, struggling with no 
small strength, the infra red rays of her anger 
circling about her like an aura. They wrestled 
over the room, pushing chairs and straining. 

Suddenly a mild voice said, “what are you two 
doing? Rehearsing for a play, or what?” 

Jimmy had entered; even the warning of his 
key in the lock not having been heard. 

Mark made no reply, but Phyllis emitted a 
highly nervous conciliatory laugh. “Good you 
came”, she said, “Mark’s got a will like a pipe 
wrench, and he wouldn’t let go.” 

“She’s some scrapper, I’ll say,” remarked 
Jimmy easily, hanging up his coat; “You caught 
a Tartar that time. Look out for that tray, 


Two Women 


297 


there! It’s on the edge and will fall any min¬ 
ute.” 

Phyllis sprang to save the unnoticed tea tray, 
half over the edge of the small table. 

Mark’s face, crimson and sullen, was fortu¬ 
nately not readily discernible in the half light. 
He hesitated for a half-minute with an ominous 
light in his eye, debating whether he should him¬ 
self speak to Jimmy. But the idea was mani¬ 
festly fantastic in the circumstances. He 
straightened his shoulders with an almost mili¬ 
tary discipline. 

“I overstayed tea time and prevented your 
dutiful wife from having her lord’s supper 
ready,” he said, with finely shaded sarcasm and 
a savoir faire which mocked her old conception 
of him as clumsy. “Good bye—had a delightful 
time!” 

The air on his face, once he was outside the 
door, seemed to bathe him with returning sanity, 
but at the same time he realized by means of 
that returning sanity that he was at the very 
nadir of his emotional life and spirtual morale. 
He walked along aimlessly. He was overwhelmed 
by a general sense of world-awryness and form¬ 
lessness ; and over his feeble defense rushed pell- 
mell into his mind all the doctrines of futility he 
had been debating with the radical literary and 
art groups. Paul D’Arcy had spent an evening 
at Pauline’s not long ago, and had expounded 


298 


Two Women 


'dadaism”, a philosophy of confusion and mean¬ 
inglessness in life. Mark had vigorously resisted 
the value of this “nonsense,” denied that the pat¬ 
tern of life was senseless and Quixotic. He had 
accused D’Arcy of hyperaesthesia, of lack of con¬ 
tact with the invigorating, cleansing currents of 
life. 

As Mark walked along the street, a cynical, 
hard smile formed on his lips. Someone had re¬ 
cently given him one of George Santayanna’s 
volumes to read, and he remembered with relish 
now, a line which but the other evening had ir¬ 
ritated him: “Everything in nature is lyrical in 
essence, tragic in its fate and comic in its exis¬ 
tence.” It must be true, for life nauseated him, 
while at the same time it moved him to sardonic 
laughter. The whole towering mass of pride, of 
ideas and reason and purpose in man, the self- 
vaunted civilized animal seemed to him to be a 
bauble. The very sky-scrapers he passed by, 
stark and bespangled with lit windows like dance 
hall harlots, bent and distorted absurdly in Iris 
vision and mood. This great building on the left, 
mostly dark, bellied and sagged in his eyes, like 
a vaudeville actor whose tall top-hat has been 
smashed down over his face. This tall building 
to the right curled inward like a sick man on a 
steamer deck. The Metropolitan Tower, rear¬ 
ing its light-house beam in the distance, leered 
at him like the one-eyed giant of Sinbad’s ad- 


Two Women 


299 


venture. The streets seemed as revolting as a 
dustpan seen under a microscope, with ash cans 
and street cleaners’ carts and broken crates star¬ 
ing from the foreground . . . 

A woman and her escort passed by. Judged 
by every 4 ‘normal’’ standard, she was lovely, 
in silken gown of Paisely pattern, the half light 
of the darkened streets lending the titivation of 
mystery to her bright face. But to Mark she 
was a phantasmagoria. Her cheeks hung like fat 
women’s breasts, her eyes were windows looking 
in on evils, and her form a fish-wife’s. The 
laughter of the couple seemed like the yapping 
of prairie dogs. The forms of other humans 
moved about like roaches in a closet. Even the 
last magenta remnants of evening light on the 
rim of the western sky seemed like the sickly, 
spilled blood of an old roue. 

There didn’t seem to be any reason for being 
human; he felt distinctly troglodytic, with a wish 
for primordial slime and the unconscious. He 
thought also as he walked along, of a passage 
he had found a few days before, by Geoffrey 
St. Helaire, who said that sitting aimlessly on 
the banks of the Nile he had felt rising in him 
the instincts of the crocodile. Only the other 
night he had quoted the passage to D’Arcy to 
point out the sick fantasy of the Moderns; to¬ 
night he could grasp with clarity the mood which 
prompted these words and Santayanna’s. To 




300 


Two Women 


crawl ignominously into a mud bank and cast 
off the fine-cut considerations of civilized life 
seemed an idea full of blessed relief. 

Then suddenly the vials of his crepuscular, 
moody poisons poured themselves not only upon 
life but upon Phyllis. Not yet wise enough to 
know that those we must love we must perforce 
also hate, he could only wrathfully puzzle over 
her perversity in love. 

“I don’t believe she really loves me!” he said, 
half aloud, the words re-torturing him as they 
came back to his brain through his ears. “How 
can she love me and not wish to correct her 
mistake, now that she’s found it out?” From 
this he began to generalize about women. He 
felt, like Moliere, ridicule for the affectations of 
learned women, and in the abstract his bare heart 
warmed toward some simple woman whose 
love would be clouded with no dubiety or inhibi¬ 
tions; some farm lass, some devout village neo¬ 
phyte, some unspoiled child of nature. 

But then his thoughts instantly, loyally, came 
back to Pauline and he almost turned his steps 
toward her rooms. She was genuine and 
straightforward, she was warm and enheartening, 
but for these very reasons he could not endure 
her tonight. As he let his mind dwell upon her, 
however, new health came to him and he walked 
with a little more bouyancy to his now more 
and more intolerably lonely quarters. 


Two Women 


301 


Each day thereafter he was tempted strongly 
to go to Panline, and tempted in an alternating 
mood, to go far off to some Brazilian tropical 
interior or some desolate Mongolian steppe. 
His rapid oscillations made him miserable, of 
conrse. He would one moment endue Phyllis with 
all nobilty and love, and the next moment en¬ 
venom her with a hard hatred as he faced the 
fact of her unwillingness to right their love sit¬ 
uation ; faced his fortune created by the mounte- 
bankish palmistry of fate. 

By contrast Pauline took on saintly propor¬ 
tions, and her frequent telephone inquiries as to 
the cause of his absence only heightened his sense 
of regard. The feeling deepened. He made a 
decision. He would dismiss as a bad dream his 
recent harrowing experience. He would immerse 
himself in the spontaneous, subtle, spiritual 
charm of Pauline,—he would make the conflu¬ 
ence of their life-streams complete. 

Accordingly he spent every possible hour with 
Pauline, and made her a little curious with his 
unusual affection for her, affection which he 
rendered with a keen will and a real emotional 
need; yet he dimly perceived that it allayed 
nothing of the implanted joy and love he had 
felt the day before for Phyllis. That hour of 
revealing beatitude came back to him at many un¬ 
expected moments; came back to him with ex¬ 
cruciating pain at the very moment when Paul- 


302 


Two Women 


ine, standing elfishly in a dressing-gown before 
her chiffoniere, snuggled her jet black braids 
over her shoulder, made faces at him and blew 
out the candle. 


CHAPTER XXII 


In her rooms a few days later, Phyllis found 
herself wandering from one unfinished task to 
another. 

At last she stopped before her mirror with a 
gesture of alarm. 

‘ ‘Something’s the matter with me!” she ex¬ 
claimed looking at her image, but noting nothing 
strange except perhaps an unfamiliar cast of eye 
and a certain velleity; a vague numbness under¬ 
neath which a powerful smouldering was going 
on that presaged incomprehensible things. At 
any minute flame might break forth, she knew 
not where or why. Little nerves vibrated with 
cicado-like regularity in her hands, her forearms, 
her face and elsewhere, with occasional rhythmic 
crescendos which assaulted her self-possession. 

“Why pretend you don’t know what it is?” she 
suddenly said to her mirrored image, giving it 
the Phyllis directness of gaze. “That terrible 
kiss of Mark’s must have done it—I haven’t felt 
quite myself since . . . Do I love Mark so 
frightfully? ... but perhaps it is only physical. . 
303 


304 


Two Women 


Chemical reaction, Gregory Eaton would say!” 

She went about her work for a while, having 
for the moment bested her sensations by classi¬ 
fying them as physical and chemical; epithets 
with which she and her female forbears had im- 
memorially belittled passional feeling. 

Her thoughts nevertheless hovered over Mark, 
his rigor of mind, his intensity, his caustic hu¬ 
mor, which struck across her mind with the en¬ 
livening freshness of rain on an up-turned face 
in a desert. And if she let her mind dwell 
on these things for but a few minutes, the pic¬ 
ture blurred and her feelings rather than her 
brain dominated. The taste of his kisses, the 
intoxication of his closeness, the fascinating ter¬ 
ribleness of his look as he was about to blaze up 
into great flares of passion when she stopped 
him—these things took possession of her, un- 
steadied her, changed her into a quivering Sy¬ 
barite. She dared not confess to herself what 
was the meaning and desire of the crepitations 
which registered on her ear-drums, in her pulses 
and throughout her body. Yet their meaning was 
almost indecently plain; they seemed to fill the 
room with vociferant noise. She wanted Mark 
tremendously; suddenly he seemed the absolute 
sum of desire. The very necktie he wore seemed 
to recall itself to her memory as of special selec¬ 
tive artistry. And a dreadful paradox was set 
up: for though in spirit still virginal, she was 


Two Women 


305 


at least familiar with the physical alphabet of 
passion, and now her imagination confronted 
her virginal self with pictnres of desires ful¬ 
filled, until she shrank from herself in indignant, 
shamed retreat. Yet there was no retreat; night 
and day she was her own prey; meanwhile as¬ 
tounded at her irritability to Jimmy, and her 
callousnes to this irritability; callousness so 
great indeed, that she could lie by his side and 
think calmly of his death, until the idea mounted 
to the super-spiritual regions of her mind and 
she spewed it out with moral fervor. 

Every day she expected to hear from Mark, 
even though her mind was alarmed and confused 
as to what was to be her attitude. For an en¬ 
tire two weeks she endured the uncertainty and 
ache. Walking east on Thirty-fourth Street past 
the Waldorf Astoria one afternoon she descried 
at a distance coming toward her, Pauline and 
Mark. They were laughing and bent slightly to¬ 
ward each other, in a posture of playful inti¬ 
macy. 

Phyllis stopped, a hot weakness overcoming 
her. She ran into one or two pedestrians as she 
moved hurriedly into the Waldorf doors and 
strayed through “Peacock Alley”, and across 
to the Thirty-third Street side of the hotel, de¬ 
sirous only of avoiding seeing Pauline and Mark. 
She sat down just before reaching the door, out 


306 


Two Women 


of sheer aimless misery, but could scarcely keep 
quiet in her seat. 

“What did you expect, you fool?” She told 
herself hotly, matching her words to the turbu¬ 
lent moods within her. “Of course he’s fond of 
Pauline. He probably lives with her.” The 
words left on her spirit a livid scar of pain, but 
she was relishing self-castigation. “WJiat can 
you expect?” One half of herself was jeering 
at the other half and goading it mercilessly in 
the hope that it would capitulate. The half that 
wanted Mark at all cost had nothing but anger 
and irony for the half that called itself morally 
superior and wished to shame her out of her love 
and back to her husband. 

She sat a long time in the dim, half-deserted 
hall in that less frequented part of the hotel; 
mutely miserable, silent except for a sentence 
that occasionally came out of her lips. 

“I mustn’t let it master me,” she said half 
aloud at one point, and realized a second later 
that a woman who had been seated nearby was 
looking at her questioningly. 

She rose at once and went through Peacock 
Alley again to the street, and turned homeward, 
her spirits at a desperately low ebb. 

In the next few weeks she often walked about 
town rather aimlessly, and by a process only 
partly conscious, she strolled frequently past 
the building which housed Mark’s office. She did 


Two Women 


307 


it with an insonsiance only a woman canght in 
the meshes of a donble-directioned emotion conld 
feel. It appeared to happen, and she actually 
had valid reasons for the happening; yet one day 
about noon when Mark catapulted energetically 
out of the tall Gothic entrance of the skyscraper 
and found her passing, a tiny flush of realizing 
shame came on her face. 

i 6 Howdy ?” said Mark with a smile of undis¬ 
guised pleasure. 

“How funny I should meet you like this,” she 
said, self-consciously, her heart beating a comic 
tattoo. “I confess I was thinking about you.” 
Phyllis’ flair for frankness felt it must own up. 

“Yes?” said Mark, a little lamely, “That’s 
good.” 

“I naturally wondered why you had not come 
to see me for so long.” 

“Been frightfully busy,” Mark briskly replied. 
“I undertook too many pieces of work last month 
and they’re chaining me to the machine. One of 
*hem alone is a regular knockout—a packer’s 
trust story! I spent all last week in Chicago. 
I’m developing a totally new angle—effect of 
the trusts on distribution costs and what’s to 
happen now that they’re to be broken up. What 
do you think of it?” 

Phyllis looked at him with a smile of Gioconda 
quality. Between the intellectual desire to dis- 


308 


Two Women , 


cuss and the antipodal desire to be personal and 
emotional it was the only kind of a smile possible. 

Meanwhile the noon crowds were abroad, be¬ 
coming denser every minute, making walking 
together and talking, very difficult, 

“Come, lunch with me and tell me about it P’ 
said Phyllis gayly. 

“Can’t really—awfully sorry,” said Mark, 
I’m rushing out for a mere sandwich; boy from 
printer’ll be there in half an hour and I musn’t 
delay.” 

The words were hardly out of his lips when 
the remembrance flashed upon him of that sum¬ 
mer’s day also on the crowded street at noon, 
when he had pleaded with her for lunch and 
been treated to precisely the same cool reply. 
His jaws opened for a laugh, but he snapped 
them shut and looked down at the now quite dif¬ 
ferent figure at his side; the tautness and ar¬ 
rogance gone and an aura of wistfulness enfold¬ 
ing her. It would have been unsportsmanlike to 
laugh. 

“Then come for tea tonight,” she said, her 
voice rising with an unobserved inflection of ap¬ 
peal. 

“Phyllis,” said Mark, sober now and edged 
with bluntness, “tell me, yes or no, will you take 
the steps necessary so that we can marry?” 

Phyllis quailed before the fixed tensity of his 
eyes. “Don’t ask me that ... I ... I can’t.” 


Two Women 


309 


she replied, torturcusly; her face crimsoning and 
her eyes cloudy with conflict. 

“Then I do not call on you alone / 9 snapped 
Mark, decisively, his own face vivid with feel¬ 
ing. “Invite Pauline and me over some even¬ 
ing and we four will have a pleasant visit to¬ 
gether ... Hadn’t I better leave now?.. Sorry . 

Phyllis bowed in a stiff, hurt, overcome man¬ 
ner and left him without a further word. Mark 
meanwhile at his brief lunch suffered contri¬ 
tion for his summary manner with her—to say 
nothing of an almost intolerable yearning for her. 

Less than a week later, Pauline, one morning, 
gowned hastily to meet the postman, in a wad¬ 
ded silk Japanese dressing robe, ripped open an 
envelope and exclaimed, “Oh, Mark! We’re 
going to Phyllis’ tomorrow night!” 

“You don’t seem keen about Phyllis’ invita¬ 
tion,” Pauline observed, at the breakfast table. 
“I haven’t seen that girl for months. She’s 
so strange in her friendship! Suddenly she en¬ 
ters as unexpectedly as she exits and the same 
Phyllis greets you, as warmly as if you’d em¬ 
braced her only yesterday. It must be wonder¬ 
ful to have a nature like hers, that doesn’t need 
her friends constantly!” 

Mark worked assiduously over his grapefruit 
without comment. 

“And I used to think I understood you two 
people,” continued Pauline, “but I really don’t, 


310 


Two Women 


I think. Yon needn’t talk abont it though. At 
least I understand a few things, and it’s really 
not my part to pry.” 

Mark looked at her, closely. In the many 
months he had known her every mood and tense, 
her face had come to develop a telegraphy of its 
own. The calligraphic hand .of nature had 
wrought her sentient lips, susceptive eyes and 
sensate face and carriage so that one who would 
acquaint himself with the glossary of their 
many meanings, might read on and on and have 
no great need of spoken words. 

He saw that what she said with her lips was 
repeated with her gaze and not belied, that she 
had no suggestion of the feline in her. 

“You’re a great girl, Pauline, you’re one in 
ten thousand,” Mark said, impulsively. “I’d 
be a wreck without you, because of Phyllis, and 
I haven’t been confiding in you as much as I 
might. I haven’t given you credit for being big- 
hearted enough to understand anything that 
might occur. I’m going to bring you up to 
date right now.” 

And he rehearsed the events fearlessly to her, 
Pauline listening, spellbound, her fingers playing 
across her face occasionally, as if compelled 
to release her tension. 

“Was I very naughty for not telling you be¬ 
fore this?” 


Two Women 


311 


“No, Mark; I would rather hear it all after¬ 
ward in a lump like this, than at the moment it 
was all happening. I can mentalize it more 
completely this way; the other way I would 
have suffered.” 

“I’m terribly sorry to appear in this . . . un¬ 
faithful way to you,” said Mark, with obvious 
painfulness and mental torture. “Everything else 
but love is such a clear straight line to me, but 
in that I’m especially selected by fate to be 
mocked at and made an utter ass of.” 

There was a note of bitterness in his tone. 
He turned about and seized Pauline’s hand, and 
said with his heart in his words, ‘ ‘Pauline, I 
beg you to marry me! This inconsistent, vacil¬ 
lating, shuttle-cocking is ruining me, making me 
despise myself. I do love you; no man ever 
had a more wonderful sweetheart and friend. 
Come, Pauline, let’s get married at once! It’ll 
settle matters and we’ll be tremendously happy 
—I know it!” 

Pauline smiled—a slow eloquent, multiple 
smile which, in its phases and convolutions was 
the equivalent to a volume. A score of emotions 
battled with a few ideas and lost. She moved 
her shoulders about in the big black robe with 
its yellow flowers in an effort to stabilize her 
feelings. 

“I can’t, I mustn’t,” she said, “it’s quite im¬ 
possible,—don’t you see? You’re still in love 


312 


Two Women 


with Phyllis! I mustn’t hind yon to me, isn’t 
it clear? Now, more than ever, since Phyllis 
loves yon! I can’t—no, I can’t!!” 

“Oh, damn the whole rotten hell of a world, 
then!” exclaimed Mark rising so rapidly that 
his chair fell backward, and striding angrily 
about the room. 

“ ‘Can’t, mustn’t’—the very self-same words! 
God, how I hate them! I’ve never despised 
more any two words in the English language! 
‘Can’t, can’t,’ the words of a weakling! ‘Mustn’t, 
mustn’t’ the words of a coward! Damn all 
women! Damn marriage! Why do I have to 
be singled out to be the sport of the Gods? I 
love, and no woman will marry me! I’m a 
pariah, a Jonah!” 

“What a face!” suddenly laughed Pauline; 
“what a target! There!” and she threw a 
sofa pillow accurately into the very middle of 
his tragic countenance. The lines of tragedy 
broke slowly, but when another and harder pil¬ 
low followed its partner upon the tip of his nose, 
the lines disappeared almost completely. 

“You darn little tease!” he exclaimed, and 
aimed them back at her; and for a few min¬ 
utes they bombarded each other hectically. He 
kissed her very tenderly as he left, and they 
agreed to visit Phyllis together. 


CHAPTEE XXIII 


From the very moment Mark and Pauline 
entered Phyllis’ abode on the evening of their 
visit, there arose an exhalation, an aura in the 
room which was difficult both to realize and to 
account for. 

Phyllis’ face shone with a certain phosphor- 
escent brightness in her eyes betokening a special 
awakeness and interest. To be sure, this ef¬ 
fect was hightened by a batik smock of many 
luminous shades of blues and greens, and in 
her hair she wore a high comb, an heirloom 
irridescent with brilliants. The room was filled, 
moreover, with shadows and half lights, con¬ 
trived by Phyllis’ eccentricities in lighting ef¬ 
fects. Wall lights, shaded and painted parch¬ 
ment discs and a table lamp with a hammered 
brass shade took away all sharpness of outline. 

Jimmy was the quintessence of domestic com¬ 
fort in a velvet smoking jacket and a pipe and 
was genially affable, but he gave forth the im¬ 
pression that he was content to consider himself 
a part of the background and not an integral 


314 


Two Women 


part at all of their world of interest. In this 
Phyllis seemed to acquiesce quite as a matter 
of course, and arranged her guests about the 
fireplace without drawing Jimmy into the circle. 
For herself she chose a hassock and with obvious 
relish settled herself on it, against Pauline’s 
knee. 

“Now let’s hear what’s been going on—both 
of you are so much more in the swim than I! ” 

Pauline reached out and stroked the mass 
of hair—thinking of the line “the tangle of 
Neara’s hair” that had stuck in her mind, as 
such lines will, for the last few days after 
reading some verse; and thinking of her own 
hair’s Indian straightness. 

But neither Pauline nor Mark felt it becoming 
to dilate upon their own doings before the work- 
bereft Phyllis, so they did not regale her very 
long with editorial gossip. 

“What has happened to your essay?” asked 
Mark, of a sudden. 

“Oh pshaw,” exclaimed Phyllis, “I’ll never 
be a writer. Let’s talk of something else.” 
She said it gayly, saucily, and yet quite as if 
she meant it. 

“What nonsense,” curtly rejoined Mark, the 
homiletic sterness Phyllis knew so well coming 
into his voice. 

Phyllis arched her eyebrows demurely. She 
was pining for just what she knew was coming. 


Two Women 


315 


“I’ll wager yon sent it to three magazines 
and then decided yon were a failure,” intoned 
Mark, accusatively. “W,hat a ridiculous atti¬ 
tude. Do yon know I suspect all yon women 
with careers or hopes of careers, of being always 
close to the ‘I surrender’ point. Three times 
now in the last year I’ve seen women who 
though all ambition and fervor for a time, left 
me gaping by suddenly dropping the whole thing 
with a thud— 

“To marry?” quizzed Phyllis, still saucily. 

“Well, there’s Anne Barrows—you know her, 
Pauline. She never could talk anything but her 
work,—no time for play, no time even to get 
married, she used to say Then suddenly she 
married and gave up her job and never a word 
again does she speak of her supposed absorbing 
profession!” 

“Well, why not?” said Pauline, feeling that 
Mark was trampling somewhat on delicate per¬ 
sonal ground. 

“Nothing—I just wonder how seriously women 
ever take work. Take Nora Baker for another 
case. She went through marriage and kept up 
her work with keen interest—and then one day 
she takes Pauline into a quiet corner in 
Schratft’s for a soda and talks about expecting 
a baby, and also how strange it is that she 
doesn’t reallv care for her line of work any 


316 


Two Women 


more. Strange! ha! ha! She’s through! The 
nursery for her!” 

“I repeat, why not?” challenged Pauline. 
“Having a baby is a big business; who are you 
to grin about it?” 

“I don’t object to the brat,” vigorously com¬ 
mented Mark, “but what T’m getting at is the 
stabilty of women in business or professional 
life. Is it a mere excursion, a sight-seeing trip, 
as it were, or is it a life work?” 

“It’s neither,” contended Phyllis, her eyes 
snapping with the intense aliveness she had 
displayed from the moment of their entrance; 
“because woman’s the great anomaly, the par¬ 
adox.” 

“Especially created for mystifying and con¬ 
founding man, I suppose,” sniffed Mark, with 
elevated chin. 

“Let her explain,” said Pauline, noting in 
wonderment Phyllis’ exotic brilliance and dimly 
recognizing it as the stimulated product of her 
new emotion. “Wbat do you mean, paradox?” 

“I mean that woman is doomed by nature and 
circumstances to be the—well, the obverse side 
of the medal—-the left to the man’s right; the 
weakness of his strength, the non-resistant of 
his inflexibility, the round of his straight. Do 
you follow me?” 

“Not quite,” said Mark. 


Two Women 


317 


“What does a woman face?” replied Phyllis, 
rising animatedly and gesticulating. “She faces 
from the start the necessity of being complemen¬ 
tary or opposite to something fixed and inex¬ 
orable. She must be graceful, demure and 
dissembling because man is strong and direct. 
She must wear skirts because man wears the 
only real kind of clothes—trousers. She must 
marry and make a home because man must 
have—what did old whiskers used to call it? 
‘asylum from the rigors of life/ wasn’t it? She 
can’t have a career because he has—what is the 
regular boarding school line—‘a sacred duty to 
the race!’ She can’t this, and mustn’t that. 
She’s an anomaly, I tell you! She must both 
retreat and advance in courtship. She must 
be mistress and Madonna in marriage, devoted 
home maker and devoted careerist. She must 
be beautiful yet intellectual, logical yet emo¬ 
tional. She must in fact be oil and water, the 
north and the south, the gun and the target, 
both! I don’t see how it’s ever going to be 
done. It’s unsolvable and it’s paradoxical. It’s 
unfair to criticize her.” 

“That’s pretty keen,” commented Mark, with 
admiration in his eyes for the spectacle she 
made, “but is it your answer to my question 
that you can’t expect women to stick to a line 
of work?” 

“That isn’t fair,” protested Phyllis leaning 




318 


Two Women 


forward; “woman, because she is caught on the 
horns of this dilemma, can only do one thing— 
oscillate. She must obey whatever is strongest 
for the time being.’’ 

“And oscillate so fast that she addles her 
mind,” commented Mark. 

“With the egg-beater of fate,” interpolated 
Phyllis with sudden mischievousness. 

“To be served on a two-egg omelette for the 
delight of mighty, dignified Man, as personified 
in His August Highness, Mark Stockman!” said 
Pauline joining in the fun, by salaaming, Orient¬ 
al fashion before him. The girls united their 
laughs. Mark m mock revenge on Pauline, 
picked her up as she rose from her grand salaam 
and somersaulted her. Pauline retaliated with 
pillows, and Mark lifted her bodily from the 
settee and deposited her, struggling, out of reach 
of more pillows. 

“Your nails are hurting me!” she complained, 
ruefully rubbing the back of her neck. 

“I’ll kiss it all away,” he said, kissing her 
neck repeatedly and ostentatiously, with exag¬ 
gerated tenderness. “Poor little bird! Hid my 
talons hurt?” 

When he looked up he was startled to find 
Phyllis standing beside him, her eyes wide and 
glittering, her body rigid and her nostrils mov¬ 
ing with surcharge of strong feeling. Pauline 
had her head turned the other way. There was 


Two Women 


319 


almost supplication in Phyllis’ eyes, and he was 
suddenly aware that she touched his hand. 

With a reaction not at all considered, Mark 
pushed the hand away. At that moment Pauline 
turned about. Phyllis walked off into the other 
room, but came back very quickly, her manner 
highly nervous and her eyes restlesso Good 
conversation, expression of ideas were like wine 
to Phyllis, and did to her what champagne is 
reputed to do to chorus girls. She had, in her 
own way, been flirting with Mark ever since 
he had come, and her excellent mind had been 
at its best for him. He had performed perfectly 
the function of steel to her flint. Never had 
she adored and desired him more than at that 
moment, yet at just precisely that moment she 
had been obliged to look on while he played 
with and kissed another woman! Like all wo¬ 
men who have never before known the pangs 
of strong passion, she was with absolute com¬ 
pleteness at its mercy. She was pure primitive 
reaction; and while she had been taught to 
suppress love, the inhibitions did not hold for 
jealousy. The picture of Mark leaving her 
shortly with Pauline on his arm,—to go, no 
doubt, to their snug nest together,—became a 
torturing obsession. She was annoyed—yet cal¬ 
lous—to the unequivocal desire to do Pauline 
bodily harm. She looked contemptously at Paul¬ 
ine’s frailer body; she even began, unchecked 





320 


Two Women 


for the moment by her inner censorship, to 
plume herself with the conceit that she could 
be to Mark a far more satisfying mistress than 
Pauline. ; 

When she thought of Mark’s action in pushing 
away her proferred hand, a sweat came forth 
upon her and a terrible pandemonium reigned 
within. Prom the thought of the hand episode 
is was but a step to thought of his cold refusal 
of last week to see her alone. She felt an 
intense desire that everybody leave, to permit 
Mark and herself a tete-a-tete. Almost the pet¬ 
ulant words 66 go away and leave us alone ’ 9 
arose to her lips. She wanted to have Mark 
near her, if only for a few moments, and she 
bethought her of a device. She went to her 
kitchenette to prepare some simple refreshments. 

‘ 6 Mark—you’re drafted!” she called. 

“Command me!” he said gallantly, coming to 
her side in the small space occupied by the 
kitchenette opening into her living room. 

“First, kiss me,” she said to him in tense 
undertones poorly disguised by gaiety, when he 
was beside her in the kitchenette. 

Mark was frankly aghast and incredulous, so 
completely were her words and her tone out of 
key with her character as he knew it. 

He bent down quickly and planted a kiss 
somewhere in the vicinity of an eyebrow, with- 


Two Women 321 

drawing quickly and casting a frankly uneasy 

squint into the living room, where Jimmy and 
Pauline were standing. 

The next moment he felt her arm half way 
about him, her taut fingers conveying a note of 
urgency, while near his ear he found her face. 

“A real kiss!” she whispered, imperiously— 
to him her voice registered also an astounding 
furiosity. 

“You’re crazy!” he whispered back with in¬ 
stant reaction, disengaging himself with no gen¬ 
tleness. 

“I want it!” she said, quite loud, her nails 
driving into his biceps. 

“Stop the nonsense!” he whispered, hoarsely, 
hinging her away with actual roughness. He 
was thoroughly annoyed, for already Jimmy and 
Pauline in the other room had in curiosity 
ceased talking. Being far from perfect in fem¬ 
inine psychology he did not know, however, that 
by his manner he had but applied a huge bel¬ 
lows to a flame. 

The Phyllis of his long memory, the Phyllis of 
his poignant recollection of ivory coldness and 
glacial insusceptibility, stood now before him in 
the dusky kitchenette, backgrounded by pots and 
pans and canned goods,—a livid trembling, men¬ 
acing creature of fire and fever. He could hear 
her breath race through her nostrils, he could 
feel her heat and the onset of her, and he was 




322 


Two Women 


paralyzed. Something of that instinctive human 
terror at the sound of great waters breaking 
down and defying all in its path came to him, 
and he was spellbound. 

She came close to him, unmindful of the eyes 
of Pauline and Jimmy peering toward them; 
and Mark, scarcely knowing what else to do, 
backed out into the room. She moved faster, 
and in a moment she was in the room, suddenly 
aware of the denouement she had half created. 
Her face was ablaze, but Mark noted with a 
tremulous awe that it was also strangely en¬ 
riched. 

(C 1 love him, — Jimmy, — Pauline!” her only 
half-controlled lips burst forth. “I want you 
to know it—I love him! I can’t hide it any 
longer!” She caught at Mark’s arm, but her 
head rose a trifle proudly as she looked at Paul¬ 
ine and Jimmy. Even at such a moment she 
had the unexpugnable dignity native to her. 

Now was she naked as Istar before the 
Seventh Gate; now she was sloughing off the 
hateful scales of secrecy, now was she facing 
and daring the consequences of the truth. The 
translucent frankness and simplicity of her na¬ 
ture had never before dealt with dissembly, even 
in the accredited licenses of maidenhood; it had 
been fated from the beginning of her love for 
Mark that she could not hide it. 

She swayed a little on Mark’s arm as the 


Two Women 


32b 


high moment of declaration passed and reaction 
set in. 

Jimmy strode up to her. * 4 What in the world 
is the matter, dear?” he said, putting his arm 
about her. She smiled at him and then tears 
came. He tried to draw her away to the bed¬ 
room. She resisted, but confusedly. 

Mark dropped of a sudden his helpless, 
stunned air. 

“Pm sorry, Owen,” he suddenly said with 
ebullient decision, laying his hand on Jimmy's 
sleeve. “This thing had better go to a finish 
now. It's simply got to be done, and if you 
don't mind, won't you come over here at the 
fireplace and let’s get the girls comfortable and 
then see what is to be done about all this?” 

Springing over to the fireplace himself, Mark 
drew up the big chair, arranged a pillow. “Bring 
Phyllis here,” he said, commandingly. 

“I'm not an .invalid!” flashed Phyllis un¬ 
evenly, as she disdained Jimmy's assistance and 
walked over, looking with dazed, febrile dis¬ 
quietude toward Pauline and Mark as she seated 
herself. “What do you want me to do?” 

Pauline, whose sense of reality had not yet 
returned, seated herself on the settee as gently 
as though she were a bit of down fluttering 
earthward. The breath of fate for her seemed 
omnipresent. She fingered a string of mother 


324 


Two Women 


of pearl beads as if in a dream, telling her 
rosary. 

Jimmy, with a troubled vacant expression, sat 
down, first rather heavily on the settee, but 
rose on noting Mark standing. 

“Won’t you sit there?” he asked. 

“No thanks.” Mark was at the mantelpiece 
on his feet. “I think I’ll stay up—a fellow 
gets so darn sick of crooking his legs under 
a desk all day.” 

Talking in this strain, it seemed to them all 
for the moment as though Phyllis’ utterance 
of a moment ago had been illusion. 

“Jimmy, you’ve just heard what your wife 
said,” began Mark the next moment, however. 
“If neither I nor Pauline knew anything about 
this and it didn’t concern us immediately, the 
decent think to do would be to go home and 
let you two talk it out. But I’m sorry—that 
isn’t the case. You’ve got to know the facts, 
and right away.” 

“I do love him, Jimmy. I can’t help it; what 
can I do?” Phyllis suddenly interrupted, getting 
out of the chair in which she had been placed 
and going to Jimmy on the settee—while Paul¬ 
ine wonderingly made way for her—and laying 
her head on his chest, agitatedly. 

“Phyllis,” Mark said gently, “would you like 
to talk to Jimmy alone before we continue . . .?” 


Two Women 


325 


“No, no, go on,” replied Phyllis, still in the 
grip of emotion. 

“Don’t you agree, Pauline, that all four of 
us ought to frankly talk this thing out?” 

Pauline nodded, with eyes that burned. She 
was not yet vocal. 

“Jimmy,” continued Mark, turning about and 
leaning his back against the tapestry brick of 
the fireplace, “I’ve loved Phyllis so long and 
so hard that when you two married I thought 
I couldn’t live—and I’m a born optimist, at 
that! I thought the edge of the pit was crack¬ 
ing open under my feet. But she never loved 
me—she told me so, and no mistake about that. 
It was-” 

“What did I know about love?” put in Phyl¬ 
lis, with a high-keyed, cynical laugh. 

Mark’s eyes narrowed for a moment before 
he continued addressing himself directly to Jim¬ 
my, who was with each minute becoming more stu- 
pified and confused, his jaw hanging pendant 
and his eyes dumbly fixed. “Jimmy, you have 
no idea how I had absorbed myself in her. I 
worked out her career, I guided her in her 
editorial work, I tried to push her into the 
things I thought she was capable of doing, I 
feasted myself on her lovely face, I disciplined 
myself by her and set myself up on a higher 
plane because of her. I made myself part of 
her, even if she didn’t of me. She came from 


326 


Two Women 


another world than mine—she had a college ed¬ 
ucation and I hadn’t; she came from cultivated, 
artistic people and I came from a farm where 
sjx or seven books were thought to be about 
all anybody ought to fritter away time reading. 
She was all that I wasn’t. She-” 

A nervous half-bitter laugh from Phyllis. 
Pauline still fingered the beads, her tongue oc¬ 
casionally moistening her dry lips. 

Mark’s voice dropped into a soft prosody. 
“She was about all I cared for—even my work 
and ambitions stood in a relation to her. And 
when she married—” Marks face vainly en¬ 
deavored to stay clear of poignancy—“I was— 
well, a bit of a wreck. I came near deciding 
to get out of the country. Only Pauline, I think, 
saved me from doing something foolish. I’ve 
only lately realized precisely what she meant 
to me in those days, but I loved her for it 
nevertheless. 

“I regarded Phyllis as absolutely lost to me, 
hard as it was to realize it at once. She never 
communicated with me, nor I with her, and 
when she’d meet me at Hannah’s or somewhere, 
she gave me the coolest nod of all the cool ones 
she had been so lavish with before her mar¬ 
riage.” 

Another tense bit of laughter from Phyllis, 
who still nestled close to Jimmy. 

“Then she came to Pauline’s one evening— 



Two Women 


327 


after Pauline and I had become almost insep¬ 
arable, or after I had several times asked Paul¬ 
ine to marry me; and I couldn’t help but get 
interested in what she was doing.” 

“I asked you to,” said Phyllis. 

i ‘It seemed so perfectly natural—she seemed 
to need it so very much. I scolded her and 
almost bullied her into doing some piece of work 
she seemed to be dallying with. I came to see 
her-” 

“I invited you,” said Phyllis. 

‘ 4 1 saw myself getting once more deeply in love 
with her when I knew it was so useless and 
when I had become so attached to Pauline. I 
wanted to marry Pauline and not torture my¬ 
self any longer with Phylllis. I stayed away 
from her.” 

Phyllis sat up erect, with a peculiar calm. 

“And then when I was in the hospital, 
Jimmy,” she said, quite evenly, as she pushed 
back her tumbled hair, “I sent for him and 
told him I loved him. Yes, I did! I couldn’t 
bear it, Jimmy. I saw Mark in his right light 
for the first time, and I knew that no matter 
bow much he cut across my grain, I loved him. 
I couldn’t get away from him. I needed him. 
I had a sensation just like sinking in a mental 
quicksand if I didn’t have him. I felt myself 
going down, Jimmy, down. I couldn’t lay hold 
on anything. I couldn’t concentrate on any 


328 


Two Women 


work. I no longer had a job that interested 
me, and I was terror-struck. Jimmy, I don’t 
want to be just a housewife or a dilettante! I 
know I’m able to do something good if I’m— 
if I’ve got Mark to keep me on the right track. 
I’ve got a fine critical sense for others but I 
haven’t got any for myself. I’m always moving 
in a haze and it’s only looking backward that 
I see my seif truly. I must have Mark—I love 
him!” 

Mark straightened himself and assumed, un¬ 
consciously an ominous manner, preparatory to 
resuming. Jimmy looked stunned. 

“Oh, don’t all look so serious!” suddenly 
said Phyllis, with a little laugh, having re¬ 
covered a g;reat deal of her poise in having 
spoken. “Why, I’m a terrible hostess—we made 
lemonade, and its been standing in the kitchen 
all this time! Let me get it!” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


After a very brief interval of sipping the 
lemonade, during which little was said, Mark 
stood his glass on the mantel. 

“This seems like a tea party,” he said, with 
some emphasis, “but Ill assure you it is not. 
We haven’t come yet to the serious nub of this 
matter. Jimmy, Phyllis says she loves me, and 
it’s something I can’t deny—I love her I want 
to marry her. I wish to heaven she’d have 
told me she loved me before she married you— 
or even encouraged me a little. You wouldn’t be 
her husband today—I’ll tell you that squarely. 
Will you give her up and let us marry?” 

Jimmy plainly gasped and looked at Phyllis, 
somewhat foolishly non-plussed, as though this 
talk were all a bit of play. 

Phyllis looked at him, and a panic struck her 
feelings. 

“Mark, don’tl don’t!” she cried. Can’t you 
see how impossible?” 

Mark flushed, seemed about to deliver himself 
to strong speech, and then restrained himself. 
329 


330 


Two Women 


He drew a chair in front of the settee where 
Jimmy and Phyllis were seated, cas ing a glance 
at the statuesque, pallid figure of Pauline at the 
other end. 

“Phyllis, my dear,” he said, gently, “you’re 
now in one of those hazes you spoke of a few 
moments ago. You simply must decide either 
to want to marry me, or be content never to 
see me again.” 

Again the strange poise of indecision came 
over her which in women exasperates so many 
men, yet is so necessary as a foil to the im¬ 
patient dynamic directness of man. 

“What do you want me to do? What is there 
to do?” Phyllis spoke only half aloud, her face 
and neck suffused as usual when under stress, 
with an inordinate flush of color. 

Mark wheeled his chair closer, with an en¬ 
ergetic push. 

'“If you love me, I want you to ask Jimmy 
to agree to divorce you—that’s speaking plain 
enough, isn’t it? There is no other answer.” 

The articulation in the room of the word 
“divorce,” crisply spoken, seemed to create at 
last a greater sense of reality, a certain curious 
lack of which had prevailed before. 

Jimmy seemed roused finally out of a lethargy, 
while Phyllis moved her shoulders and shifted 
her position in trepidation. 

“Isn’t this a lot of nonsense?” Jimmy asked 


Two Women 


331 


with a wry, uncertain smile, hiding a definite 
alarm. 

Mark rose out of his chair as though catap¬ 
ulted, anger showing in his face. He bent him¬ 
self toward the couple sitting close on the settee 
before him. 

“No; it is not at all a lot of nonsense!” he 
boomed, his eyes emitting little points of fire. 
“And what’s more I’m not going to be tortured 
and toyed with another minute. If you can’t 
or won’t make an intelligent answer, Phyllis, 
I’m going to leave in a hurry and it’s the last 
you’ll see of me. I assure you, Owen,”—with 
a sardonic obeisance to Jimmy. “I’m not try¬ 
ing to drag your wife away from you. Stop 
sitting there like a couple of dopes, and lay 
hands on this thing. I’m far too fond of Pauline 
to have her sit here in this rotten situation and 
rack her feelings for the sport of the thing. It 
isn’t fair. If you love me, you’ll marry me and 
if .Ti mm y loves you he’ll let you, and that’s all 
there is to it. Now, which is it?” 

As always, Mark’s peremptory tone cleared 
the fog from Phyllis’ brain and stimulated in 
her something like decisiveness. 

“I told you I couldn’t—it would be too ter¬ 
rible!” she said, in high agitation, and that 
unsteady voice which denotes incipient weeping. 

A loud, hard and mirthless laugh came from 
Mark. 


332 


Two Women 


“Come along, Pauline,” he announced vigor¬ 
ously, and somewhat shrilly, turning to Pauline. 
A second later he turned to Phyllis, a demoniac 
light in his eyes. 

“But before I go I want to tell you, Phyllis, 
that I hate you and despise you. You’ve been 
my evil genius ever since I’ve known you, but 
by God you won’t again. You have the lure 
and the sting of a snake!” 

“Oh!” cried Phyllis, terrorized at his ap¬ 
pearance as she unconsciously held her hand 
before her lips in a gesture of horror. 

“You don’t love me at all,” continued Mark. 
“You only think sometimes you do. You’re like 
the cat which doesn’t caress one, but caressess 
itself upon you. I don’t want anything more 
to do with you!” He wheeled away to get his 
coat. 

At this point Pauline rose, with a tiny, half- 
shy smile. 

“Oh, let’s stay a while, Mark,” she said, in 
her thin, soft tone, which seemed so strangely 
in contrast with the roar of the torrent Mark 
had just poured. “Everybody’s said something 
but me. Am I altogether out of the picture? 
Please stay, Mark. He doesn’t hate you Phyllis, 
dear. As a fiction editor, I assure you that 
whom we love we must hate! And maybe a 
little fiction-editing would help! We seem to 
be like Pirandello’s play—we’re four characters 


Two Women 


333 


without an author or an editor! Lay your coat 
down, Mark, dear— I just couldn’t wait for the 
next installment if you insisted on making it to 
he continued in our next!” 

‘‘There*11 be no next,” sullenly returned Mark 
from the other side of the room, his attitude 
umbrageously resistant. 

Phyllis came to Pauline and put her arm 
around her. “Please don’t let him go like that,” 
she pleaded with blanched face. (< You under¬ 
stand me a little, don’t you?” 

Pauline pressed her hand slightly in reply, but 
she was looking in Mark’s direction. 

“Come back, Mark,” she called again with 
a smiling serenity and emphasis which indicated 
an odd certainty of being obeyed. U I want the 
story ended tonight—I really do.” 

“Well, let’s make another try then,” ac¬ 
quiesced Mark in a better tone, as he dropped 
his coat and joined them. “I apologize—but ” 

“Please” broke in Pauline, as she sat down 
on the settee, still with her arm around Phyllis, 
“may I have a word?” 

“You cetrainly may,” rejoined Mark, em¬ 
phatically, his attitude still being a reversion of 
feeling toward Pauline and away from Phyllis. 

“Let’s forget I’m personally concerned about 
this,” commenced Pauline, with a manner 
bravely aimed at this accomplishment, while, not¬ 
withstanding, an etherealized note in her voice 


334 


Two Women 


bespoke difficulty in the effort. “Let me try to 
look at ourselves as people on paper, in a man¬ 
uscript, which I must judge, to see if the author 
has worked out his situation artistically. You 
know—” Pauline straightened up into an in¬ 
terested, alert attitude, while the jetty reflec¬ 
tions of her eyes danced. “I’ve always wished 
one’s life might benefit from what one knows 
as a critic of fiction! Why not? Everybody 
who writes knows that life is very haphazard, 
and that only by rare accident it has any order 
or composition in it. It’s so helter-skelter that 
the story of life, if you photograph it at any 
point, bores you—almost always. It hasn’t any 
sort of design. People are so stupid! Circum¬ 
stances are so casual. Every editor laughs when 
the tyros write notes with their stories telling 
that their stories are ‘true!’ We know that 
they can’t be interesting, except as personal 
tales! 

“Well, that’s just the way we were going to 
end this story tonight! So like life! Stupidly 
inconclusive! Dull—oh my, how dull!” A tiny 
trill of laughter came to her lips. 

“If we had ended it in that way, I’d have sat 
for more years wading wearily through page 
after page impatient to get to the end. Or like 
a bored, tortured diner at a banquet, waited for 
a long-winded speaker to come to the point or 
stop, or both. Mark would go on loving you in 


Two Women 


335 


spite of his tall talk about hating you. You’d 
love him in spite of everything, and we’d all 
rot forever in innocus desuetude. ‘No story,’ 
as the newspaper boys say. That is true, pos¬ 
itively true. That’s the way life is.” 

“What do you want us to do, then—put on 
a little play for you!” asked Mark a trifle im¬ 
patiently. “Shall I challenge Jimmy to a duel 
up in a dark corner of Central Park at dawn? 
Or shall we have a grand Japanese hari-kari 
party and end it all?” 

Pauline smiled indulgently, and fingered her 
mother of pearls. 

“My criticism of the story, so far,” she con¬ 
tinued, in her uncertain tones, “is that while 
there’s plenty of conflict, and it is a unique sit¬ 
uation and all that, nevertheless it seems to 
have no theme or central idea.” 

Both Mark and Phyllis smiled a little awk¬ 
wardly. 

Pauline’s voice grew more positive. “Don’t 
you see what I mean? Don’t think I’m trying 
to theorize over a serious matter, but remember 
that I’m not a cold bystander to this thing. I 
love Mark; I adore him,” her coaly eyes seemed 
to shine, like coal, with all the colors of the 
spectrum. “My heart’s been going like a pneu¬ 
matic drill while you’ve talked as though I 
didn’t exist.” 

“Don’t say a word”—she continued as Mark 




336 


Two Women 


opened his lips, obviously to apologize—“I 
understand, I’m not offended. You must re¬ 
member Fve foreseen this all along. That’s why 
1 wouldn’t marry you, so long as I knew you 
sdll loved Phyllis.” 

Excited, perspiration drops appeared on 
Mark’s forehead. “Don’t you see what an awful 
position I’m in—what a crucifixion I’m under?” 
he breathed heavily, looking at Phyllis. “I want 
either to marry you or forget you and find hap¬ 
piness with Pauline, who is very dear to me.” 

“You love both, then, eh?” ventured Jimmy, 
with a queer smile. 

“Yes, I do,” shot Mark at him with vigor 
as he rose and faced about, “and don’t you 
misunderstand me, either. I have no secrets 
from either Pauline or Phyllis. My condition 
is the result of circumstances. I loved Phyllis 
as few men ever loved a woman, and I lost. 
You won.” He made a slightly ironic bow. “I 
try to heal my scars and am finding happiness, 
when Phyllis comes to life again and amazes 
me by telling me she loves me. I come back 
to her and dare to stand before you and Pauline 
and ask Phyllis to marry me, and she refuses.” 
Mark’s voice was rising with new anger. “And 
now I am humiliated doubly and trebly, by 
Phyllis in relation to me, by the spectacle I make 
crawling back again to Pauline after the sorry 


Two Women 


337 


scene of being ready to drop her the moment 
Phyllis calls; and lastly, I am humiliated by 
having Phyllis refuse me in front of you, as 
though she were using my heart to wipe her 
conscience on, and demonstrating to you how 
much she cared for you.’’ 

Mark was pacing the floor with quick steps, 
his face brick red, and his hair bristling, as 
he threw his eyes coldly at Jimmy at intervals 
while he talked. 

“You’ve taken the floor from me again,” 
chaffed Pauline, “you old Roman Senator! Sit 
down in your lordly seat, good Cato, and let us 
start de novo, as the lawyers say!” 

Mark made obeisance with a generous flourish, 
and sat down. 

“I don’t think you’ve given Phyllis a chance 
to explain herself,” said Pauline. 

“I wish she would explain,” was Mark’s em¬ 
phatic comment. “What does she suppose one 
does if one find’s one is deeply in love with 
some other than one’s husband?” 

“Yes, what does one do?” echoed Pauline, 
with a tingling laugh. 

“At least,” commented Mark, hotly, “one 
should decide.” 

“Mark, please let Phyllis make her explana¬ 
tion.” 

Phyllis stirred uneasily. “What can I say?” 
she said. “I suppose I ought to say I hate one 



338 


Two Women 


and love the other, but that is absurd. I never 
did anything more deliberate in my life when I 
decided I would marry Jimmy, and he’s a dear 
—really, He is.” With self-conscious gestures 
she reached her arm toward his shoulder. 

”1 simply can’t explain the different feeling I 
have for him and for Mark. I positively hate 
Mark sometimes, but other times—well, I’ve 
simply got to have him and I’m terribly unhap¬ 
py. I never am unhappy about Jimmy—we flow 
along evenly, and really we hit it up uncommon¬ 
ly well. When I think of leaving him I get all 
cut up and I feel ashamed of myself—yes, and 
frightened, too,—because—we’re all talking right 
out in meeting—even if I left Jimmy, I have a 
fear that Mark and I might not get along. We 
quarrel so! I could murder him sometimes!” 

“Ditto” responded Mark, with grim humor. 

“So—don’t you see? I’m naturally a little 
conservative, and the very idea of a divorce is 
frightfully distasteful somehow. The whole idea 
of throwing up my chosen partner for another 
seems to outrage me so, I—I doubt if I could be 
happy. It’s almost terrifying.” 

Phyllis hesitated, and seemed hopelessly con¬ 
fused, while Jimmy kept his eyes upon her in¬ 
tently, without a word. 

“Mark, I believe I could explain her point 
of view better than you could expect her to,” 


Two Women 


339 


commented Pauline. ‘‘You’re a journalist, Mark, 
you can bear to look at the works, the mechanism 
of human nature—even if the thing is personal 
to you. In fact, Mark, once in my studio, you 
said you knew she’d never want a divorce un¬ 
der any circumstances—that’s why you were so 
despondent; you said there wasn’t any chance 
left; you said only the neurotic got divorces. 
You evidently understood Phyllis’ character then, 
why can’t you understand it now?” 

6i People think a deep love is big enough to 
break other bonds—the truth is that it is not. 
Habit and tradition and tendermindedness are 
actually more powerful. Perhaps that is why 
Sherwood Anderson’s stuff, which pictures this 
underneath part of oneself thwarting one’s 
dreams is recognized as important, significant 
fiction—although I personally don’t like it, nor 
certainly does the public. It’s too close to real 
life, and it looks dull, gray, insane, almost. 
Phyllis hardly knows why she feels as she does, 
but she does. She loves you, Mark—I know 
love when I see it. But these other things are 
great big boulders in the way.” 

“ And love gets pushed over the precipice,” 
said Mark with bitter cynicism, “while Phyllis 
clings cowardly to various fears, ‘buts’ and 
‘whereases’. "Why not act with a little courage? 

‘ ‘ Courage! ’ ’ laughed Pauline, gently. ‘‘ All the 


340 


Two Women 


sticklers for fiction want great displays of cour¬ 
age ; fine forthright, four-square attitudes by 
people who, like the dear, altruistic characters 
in the movies or in Harold Bell Wright’s novels, 
always know exactly what is the right course and 
lake it with noble gestures and fine phrases! 
How silly! Courage isn’t anything conscious at 
all. Consciously, with our brains, we’re all Ham¬ 
lets—cowards. We only have courage in a blind, 
stupid way occasionally, and then it doesn’t 
seem like courage at all . . . Courage won’t help 
Phyllis!” 

44 Well, selfishness then!” exclaimed Mark, still 
smouldering. 

“I’m trying to use that!” exclaimed Phyllis. 
“I know what Pauline means and I’m trying not 
to be the victim of any smug phrases. Don’t ask 
me to choose between you, just as if it were a 
movie!” Phyllis pleaded, with a distressed sort 
of smile, as though hoping with humor to enter 
a plea. But her eyes showed a troubled and 
dazed light. 

“Exactly,” smiled Pauline, reaching for Phyl- 
ils’ hand. “Please let me have the floor again. 
Mark frets for the black or white conclusiveness 
of the movie kind of life, ‘where men are men’ 
and villains are killed at the last close-up, and 
the honest, open-shirted hero sticks the ring on 
tiie curly-haired heroine in the final iris fade- 


Two Women 


341 


out. Phyllis on the other hand, like all women, 
is close to life as it really is—gray, inconclusive; 
the nothing-happen-y life that most of us know. 
And both of you are in the very act of fumbling, 
blurring your big moment !” 

“Why?” asked Phyllis quietly as she looked 
with alert, half-timid interest at the taut, slender 
figure beside her, sensing a superior intelligence 
dispassionately analyzing her uncertainties. 

'“Because,” burst out Pauline, with passionate 
intentness, “there isn’t the slightest bit of need 
for us all to cut ourselves to pieces on this situ¬ 
ation. It is; and it must be what it is. It grew 
honorably and with nobody at fault into what it 
is, and all of us have a share in the responsibilty. 
Now let us be big enough to see it straight. It’s 
so ridiculous for people to write and talk logical¬ 
ly about principles of reason and equity and 
broadmindedness—and then in a twinkling 
go back to savagery the moment they personally 
are involved! 

“Don’t you remember how disgusted we were 
with the Esterly’s, who talked so much of mod- 
erness and then cracked on the same old rock 
when Ethel fell in love with Jerry? Why can’t 
we love each other happily, since we do love each 
other? Why so much excitement? I have no 
illusions—if Mark loves you now, Phyllis, he’ll 
love you two, three, four years from now. I 


342 


Two Women 


know perfectly well I can’t hope to get him all 
to myself. Even if he thought he no longer 
loved you, and told me so, it wouldn’t make much 
difference, because I’d imagine he’d day dream 
of you—and he would. He’s stamped with the 
pattern of you as inexorably as some prehistoric 
lava is stamped with the form of molluscs. You 
couldn’t boil or burn or cut it out. Yet I believe 
him when he tells me he loves me. He does.” 
There was a scent of pride in her manner. “He 
is made in generous proportions, Phyllis—He’s 
got fire and energy enough to stimulate us both, 
and”— triumphantly —“he’s proved he can love 
us both at the same time!” 

Mark was staring at her with the intentness 
of a disciple of Ball-Moloch or the Living Bud¬ 
dha. 

“Do you hear that, Jimmy?” said Phyllis, a 
little diffidently, as she turned to him. “What 
do you think?” 

Jimmy flushed. “Don’t you think, dear,” he 
purred, “that you’d better do what Mark asks, 
and tell him it w^ould be better not to see him 
again?” 

The familiar slow but ruddy flush mounted 
Phyllis’ cheeks. She stiffened. 

“I love Mark,” she said looking at Jimmy 
coldly, even cruelly. “I need him. I must have 
him. I—I don’t know what I’ll do if you make 


Two Women 


343 


objections. If I see him often and he helps me, 
maybe it will never get—more serious.” Her 
eyes were alternately ominous, embarrassed and 
coaxing. 

Jimmy twisted somewhat uncomfortably in his 
seat, looked swiftly at Mark and Pauline. 4 ‘All 
right, dear,” He said, with a little easy laugh. 
“Let him help you and be happy.” 

Tears bubbled into Phyllis’ eyes. She pressed 
Jimmy’s hand and then rose and came with a 
quick step to Mark. In the moment they em¬ 
braced, Jimmy looked at Pauline with a highly 
self-conscious, embarrassed glance about which 
Pauline later giggled in remembrance. 

44 Folks,” said Pauline rising and looking at 
her wrist watch under the light of the table 
lamp, 44 do you know it’s after two o’clock?” 

Wlien Pauline went to the bed-room to put on 
her wraps, Phyllis came to her and for the first 
time in their acquaintance impulsively kissed her. 

4 4 You’re just adorable!” she averred. 44 I 
never appreciated you as I have tonight!’ 

44 That’s good,” Pauline said, pressing her 
hand and looking at her intently, very good, 
because if we like each other thoroughly we 
won’t be so jealous of each other! 

Phyllis laughed, a released, uncontrolled laugh 
and kissed her again. 44 Im so happy it’s turned 
out as it has!” she whispered. But a moment 


344 


Two Women 


later she was gazing at Pauline with a slightly 
colder light in her eye—an appraising eye, tak¬ 
ing in further detail of the woman whom Mark 
also loved, and, scarcely aware of it, making 
comparisons, and conjectures. 

“Don’t be too happy,’’ smiled Pauline, with 
that gnomic wisdom peculiar to her, playing 
about her lips and eyes. ‘‘After all, the scene 
I edited tonight was real life and not fiction, 
and I’m not completely sure that one can graft 
a fiction ending on life, as one is never sure 
that a real life ending in fiction is wise! Over 
at the Writers’ Club the other night Irwin Cobb 
said you must always bring retribution to your 
evil doer in your story, or compensation to your 
heroine’s suffering or else it’s ‘no story’! I’m 
trying so hard, Phyllis, to prevent us all from 
petering out into ‘no story’ basis and all four 
of us being unhappy and stalemated. ... Do 
let’s try a little art and wisdom, dear, instead 
of being the usual puppets of a perverse fate. 
Let’s be tolerably happy anyway!” Pauline’s 
tone was supplicating. “Don’t let’s permit our¬ 
selves to slide into that savage, snarling, mean¬ 
ingless chaos that life is, if one fails to use any 
art at it! We can manage it together”—she 
pressed Phyllis’ hands tensely;—“I’m sure we 
can!” 


Two Women 


345 


Meanwhile out in the other room Mark was 
twisting himself into his overcoat. 

“Let me help you,” said Jimmy. 

“No, thank you,” replied Mark, without a 
glance in his direction. “Come along, Pauline!” 

He took her arm as they went out, while Phyl¬ 
lis ’ eye followed his every movement, hardly 
heeding the cheerily uttered goodnights. 

Out on the street, when they passed under a 
street lamp, Pauline looked long at Mark, her 
heart in her eyes. His face was set and tense. 

“What’s the matter? WTiy look at me that 
way?” asked Mark, suddenly. 

“I wanted to see whether, after Dictator Life 
had given you his orders, whether you were 
enough his superior to bow and laugh ... or 
... or whether I should . . . say au revoir to you 
shortly.’ ’ 

For answer Mark vociferously seized the arm 
nearest him. “I’ll laugh . . . soon ... if you only 
don’t leave me, my ... my better half!” 













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